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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942720">Monarchs in Flight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint'>rabbitprint</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Dark Knight | DRK (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Pining, Sharing a Body, Titania Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Transformation, Unsharing a Body</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:34:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>46,306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark Knight WoL, spoilers for all MSQ through 5.2, Fray/WoL. AU where the Warrior becomes Titania, and Fray becomes the Warrior in their place. </p><p>Not taking their gaze away, Feo Ul spoke slowly, making each consonant as clear as a vow inscribed in steel. "Well? Will you be the Warrior instead, my dear Ul Tyr? To let your Sigun Tyr become King and live in glory with us forever, while you carry on the thankless task of battling endless beasts, unrecognized save by the name of another -- to die, mayhap, in some empty corner of the world, far away from the rest of your soul?" </p><p>"Yes," Fray had said. "I will."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fray Myste/Titania (FFXIV), Fray Myste/Warrior of Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>117</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythicbeast/gifts">mythicbeast</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i>"But even if this is our end, it won't change what we had. I love you more than you'll ever know. Be well."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>- Fray, 'Our Closure', level 80 DRK quest</i>
  <br/>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
<i>Art by Mythicbeast - <a href="https://mythicbeast.tumblr.com/post/634648590127611904">tumblr</a> - <a href="https://twitter.com/mannerminded/status/1327129128093495299">twitter</a></i>
  </p>
</div><hr/>
<p><br/>

</p><p>The skies are already dark by the time the Warrior steps out of Lyhe Ghiah, Feo Ul in tow. <br/>
<br/>
Around them, pixies gasp in awe at the glittering stars overhead. The night paints fresh shadows across the land, punctuated by the glow of plants and insects -- and the Scions, still fighting against Eulmore's armies at Lydha Lran, look up to see the sight of amaro crossing the lake with a brilliant set of wings escorting them.<br/>
<br/>
It is chaos after that. Courage renewed, the pixies dart away from their attackers and unleash every trick they have on hand, enthusiastically jumbling enchantments together without caring what magicks they mix. Leafmen shrink to the size of rodents, wobbling like flan. Sheep bob gently upside-down, bleating softly as their fleece dyes itself in shades of brilliant pink and red. Fuath and Nu Mou join together to drive the soldiers away, their intentions in harmony for once instead of antagonizing the other.<br/>
<br/>
After the tumult dies down -- Eulmore in retreat, Ran'jit stalking away in irritation -- the pixies swarm in glee. Even the Fuath are well-behaved for once, gallivanting arm in arm with one another across the cobblestones, splashing wet trails behind them. <br/>
<br/>
The Warrior turns his head up towards the sky, adjusting the massive greatsword on his back. Feo Ul's wings are a spot of crimson beside him, hovering in pensive, uncustomary silence. <br/>
<br/>
Alisaie, batting away one particularly jubilant pixie, jogs to his side. "It's good to see you both hale and whole! Everyone keeps saying something about there being a new King?" She peers expectantly overhead, searching the night for any sign of proof, though it is too late; the King has already vanished, a brief starburst of gold and orange that had shone like a pyre. In the castle, new lights are beginning to sparkle in the windows, causing the stained glass to gleam like gemstones. "Was that Titania up there?"<br/>
<br/>
When neither Feo Ul nor the Warrior speak, she prods again. "That <em>is</em> the new King, correct? Not some well-spun illusion?"<br/>
<br/>
With a jerk of his head, the Warrior reorients himself back to her question. "Aye. Feo Ul and I met with a... pixie who had strayed near to Lyhe Ghiah," he explains, halting and clumsy, as if he has forgotten how to speak at all. "They lent their aid to me as we struggled against the Lightwarden, and during the battle, they took on both my aether and seeming to protect themselves from the Light. When the time came, it made sense for them to assume the duty of Titania in my stead -- else, I would have had to leave this life behind forever, and stay in Il Mheg myself."<br/>
<br/>
The news seeps through the assembled Scions as they straggle over to the Warrior, detaching themselves from the revelers. Alphinaud is the first to react, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "A fortunate twist of fate indeed. I, for one, would not have wished to lose our dear Warrior. And the skies give us even more cause to celebrate," he adds, gaze drawn back already to the heavens above. "Soon, we shall free all of Norvrandt, and avert this shard's fate."<br/>
<br/>
"Does the King still resemble you?" Imagination sparked, Alisaie latches on quickly to that bit of information with similar glee. "'Tis a shame they did not come down to visit us! I would have loved to have seen that. All we glimpsed from this distance was a bit of color -- to witness how you might look as a pixie is something that I dare not pass up."<br/>
<br/>
Minfilia makes an equal cry of delight at the thought, clapping her hands swiftly over her mouth with a remorseful glance in Thancred's direction, as if expecting to be chastised. Thancred, for his part, only shrugs with a wry smile. <br/>
<br/>
But in the babbling excitement of the newfound evening, it is Urianger who -- frowning -- asks the strangest question. "With such a play of semblance, I fear I must inquire: when thou didst fell Titania, was it in thy direction to which the Light did flow?"<br/>
<br/>
For a moment, the Warrior hesitates, answer held upon his tongue. Then he inclines his head. "To the pixie. Both that of Il Mheg's Lightwarden, and Lakeland's as well. I promise you that they are safe. Either they were blessed already by Hydaelyn, or the battle allowed me to gift my own protection -- whichever the case, they are clearly able to contain the Light safely, or else none of us would be here now."<br/>
<br/>
The attempt at reassurance only sobers Urianger's expression further. The direction of his next words is grim, lancing through the merriment of the celebration. "Needs we must inform the Exarch of this change."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" Alisaie, cutting to the heart of it fearlessly. "<em>His</em> solution was to have the Warrior go about and fetch every bit of Light available, wasn't it? If we are fortunate enough to discover another with the blessing of Light, then that counts for two among us who would be able to safely contain the corruption -- three, with Minfilia's gifts."<br/>
<br/>
Yet the logic does little to stem the discussion, for Urianger simply turns upon Alisaie next, his mouth set in a solemn line. "Art thou certain they bear no risk of turning?" he challenges. "To what final end hath the King been restored to Il Mheg, should the threat be returned twofold through our own oversight? The entire strength of faerie was needed before to cage Titania's powers. I would trust in the Warrior of Light first, whose prowess hath been tested and found to stand fast -- and not bestow a new influx of tragedy upon Il Mheg."<br/>
<br/>
"<em>Enough</em>. Leave the squabbling for later, both of you. Else Eulmore is like to return and kill us <em>all </em>while we stand here gaping like newborn fools."<br/>
<br/>
The command silences them all. One by one, the Scions glance towards the source: the Warrior, glaring down towards the ground instead of meeting their eyes, head ducked half-away as if to deny his own sourness. <br/>
<br/>
But he calms after a moment, speaking with less heat. "There is no danger. There is no one safer. Titania is far better protected than even myself, I would imagine."<br/>
<br/>
Urianger frowns, taking an urgent step forward. "Ere we depart, pray allow us to examine them for ourselves -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I said, there is <em>no danger!</em>"<br/>
<br/>
The sudden burst of temper flares in a snarl -- and this time, the Warrior has no explanation. He turns away entirely, lifting his head once more towards the night sky and all its stars, jaw clenched shut.<br/>
<br/>
In the hush of so many startled faces, it is Feo Ul who intervenes. "Let Ul Tyr rest," they say, their voice ringing in a merry chime. "They... <em>he</em> has been through much. I will go and assist the King. Titania has much to learn about their new role, and all of faerie will wish to celebrate both their ascent and the return of the night. Watch the skies if you wish to see them take wing once more. As Ul Tyr said -- they may look very similar to your friend, but they are not the same."</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
<em>No. I am grateful for your offer, Feo Ul. But I cannot allow yet another soul to pay the cost in my stead. I must accept the crown, and the consequences with it.</em><br/>
<br/>
The aether from the Lightwarden's death had been excruciating to endure, flare after flare exploding in lockstep, the vibrations coming so closely on the heels of each other that it felt like one single prolonged detonation. The Warrior's voice had been an echo through it all. Each syllable had boomed like drums underwater, rippling into distortions, parroting a heartbeat that reverberated irregularly on the edge of life. <br/>
<br/>
Fray, barely able to keep his wits, had crawled towards the noise out of sheer instinct alone. He had been unable to understand the words fully, only recognizing the protest in them: a clear sign that the Warrior of Light was about to make some headstrong, reckless decision that needed to be stopped at all costs. <br/>
<br/>
The hum of wings cut into his hearing suddenly. A higher-pitched voice was replying now, equal in its agitation. "You would lose your mortal nature, my beloved sapling. To become a fae is not merely an extension of one's life. 'Twould be a greater sacrifice for you than I, setting aside your mortal friends, your dearest loved ones, and your home. You would leave behind all your sweet, fleeting fancies of what you might have built for the future with them, and see the world as one of <em>us </em>instead."<br/>
<br/>
Struggling awake had felt like shoving his hands into a snowdrift where every flake was razored glass. The doubled aether of two Lightwardens had already congealed into a solid roar, drowning out Fray's sense of the Warrior. The abyss's flame flared and vanished erratically like a candle in a storm; Fray forced his way through only by following whichever strands of emotions he could find. Sorrow. Regret. Resignation. A fresh wave of stubbornness -- and then a drive to <em>protect</em>, one which refused any limits of sanity and was willing to make itself into a living aegis, wide enough to encompass an entire world. <br/>
<br/>
Fray caught it as it rose, the swell of devotion curving like the vastness of Bismarck breaching the clouds into sun, and broke free past the agony of the Light.<br/>
<br/>
The Warrior was shaking his head firmly, caught up in the grip of his own convictions. "You told me that there would be rules, Feo Ul. Give as much back as was taken, create as much as is destroyed. Give as much as is received." Turning slowly in place, he lifted his head to regard the intricate windows spanning the ballroom around them, monuments to what had once been a bustling castle; Fray, dizzied from the Light, only found himself nauseated further by the motion. "Eorzea has shown me that the duties of leadership are not to be taken lightly, whether you are a revolutionary or a company brave. <em>Your</em> life as a pixie without those responsibilities is no less precious. How can I treat it as a coin to pay for my own freedom?"<br/>
<br/>
The growing sense of dread had begun to roar like a flood -- not from the Warrior himself, but as a clot in Fray's own heart. For all the Warrior's pretty words, they were still the proclamations of someone about to nobly fling themselves off a cliff and into the waiting maw of a tiger. He had begun pushing back angrily, frantically; every time he tried to shout for the Warrior's attention, everything felt muffled beneath the numbing cocoon of the Lightwarden's aether, smothering him even as it swallowed his voice.<br/>
<br/>
"I <em>know</em> I cannot make this decision lightly. I may not understand everything about Il Mheg, but I understand that much." Step by step, the Warrior paced forward, lowering themselves with small creaks of their armor until they were kneeling on the spot where Titania must have perished, gloved hand touching the stone. "Becoming King isn't simply a matter of lifespan. I would have to remove myself entirely from <em>any</em> part of being the Warrior of Light. Otherwise, I would drag all of Il Mheg into more than just the battle against the Lightwardens -- it would be into <em>every </em>mortal concern, every political arrangement and influence, and I <em>saw </em>how poorly that turned out for the Scions once already. Only by the balance of the fae folk would I be able to act. I could no longer be the friend they knew. Not as Titania." <br/>
<br/>
With that, Fray felt the Warrior's fists tighten, a flare of anger sparking through the man's soul. Then grief opened up next like a cadaver's ruptured belly, and Fray could not stem the flashes that roared through both their minds: that of elezen ears and pale hair, blood on stone, a broken shield. <br/>
<br/>
"Is this truly what it comes down to?" The bitterness in the Warrior's voice could not disguise the cesspool of his self-loathing, ripe and rotting. "Where I must stand aside once more, and pretend that it is fair for someone else to bear the responsibility for my actions -- when there is still the chance to do <em>better</em> this time?"<br/>
<br/>
With a kick of their feet, Feo Ul had lifted higher into the air, flitting closer to look into the Warrior's face -- and then even nearer than that, veering towards the man's eyes like a bloodthirsty hornet, and Fray had the sudden, startled impression that the pixie was somehow seeing <em>him</em>. <br/>
<br/>
"There is," they said, "another option."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" the Warrior had asked, startled, but Feo Ul hushed him with a tiny hand upon his nose, their wings glittering frantically in the stained glass of the castle lights. <br/>
<br/>
Not taking their gaze away, they spoke slowly, making each consonant as clear as a vow inscribed in steel. "Well? Will you be the Warrior instead, my dear Ul Tyr? To let your Sigun Tyr become King and live in glory with us forever, while you carry on the thankless task of battling endless beasts, unrecognized save by the name of another -- to die, mayhap, in some empty corner of the world, far away from the rest of your soul?"<br/>
<br/>
There had been no doubt as to the answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," Fray had said. "I will." </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
The words still linger on his tongue even as the Scions make camp for the evening. <br/>
<br/>
The view from Lydha Lran is a paradise of color. The lake gleams with rainbow reflections, its currents rippling with newfound potency as the Fuath dwelling within gyrate in glee. There is still a ways to go before the border of Lakeland, particularly when traveling on foot; the amaro have their own affairs to tend to, and so the Scions are left to bear witness to the night in all its revelry. <br/>
<br/>
Over at Lyhe Ghiah, fresh lights glitter as the pixies dart back and forth towards the castle. Titania is larger than them all, soaring through the sky in long, swooping arcs, like a banner let loose to flirt eternally with the clouds. The gold of their wings leaves shimmering trails that dust the air in aether. Distant echoes of laughter announce the King's presence whenever they sweep by overhead, the emerald of their gown rippling velvet-dark against the night while every faerie nearby shrieks piercingly in unified delight. <br/>
<br/>
Swirls of other pixies take to the air to join Titania's escort, giggling as they spiral through the sky. Fray watches them soar, a flock of jubilant sparrows against the stars. From this distance, all he can see of the King is a blot of color: a flower of orange and gilt, like a sun upon its first voyage, or a meteor that never needs fall to earth. <br/>
<br/>
Already, he can feel exhaustion starting to burrow into his bones, both physical and mental. Lying to the Scions had been difficult enough. Trying to uphold an illusion of the Warrior's patience had made it worse. Fray will need far more practice to maintain the lie for any length of conversation. It had already been more trouble than it was worth to discuss what had happened to the Lightwardens' aether -- but it is impossible for Fray to conceal that particular change. Rather than try to pick and choose the necessary balance of aether based around aspected elements, his separation from Titania had been performed along the polarities of Astral and Umbral, Dark and Light -- which meant that the energies which went to form Titania's new body had resulted in taking the aether of the Wardens with it. Fray had been even more displeased than Urianger upon discovering <em>that</em>. <br/>
<br/>
But there was nothing else to be done. Neither he nor Titania had had any choice in the matter, not when they were lucky to have pulled off such a feat at all. <br/>
<br/>
Even so, the discomfort in his muscles shows no signs of fading. Fray has rarely held the reins of control completely, but he can already tell that <em>something</em> has been drained from the body which he and the Warrior once shared. The hum of the world around him feels off, skewed somehow, too sensitive in some ways and dulled in others, as if there is water trapped in his ears after a swim. Feo Ul had warned him that the division would have side effects, but the pixie's words -- that he was all smokey now, smokey and <em>swirly </em>-- hadn't offered much insight into what to expect next. <br/>
<br/>
And there is something far worse than mere aether which he lacks. For the first time in Fray's existence, his mind is silent of all but his own thoughts. Only a rigid emptiness remains, like a paralyzed lung that refuses to exhale. Everything is quiet. He can feel a distant pull towards the Warrior -- Titania now -- like a tug upon his chest, leading him back towards Lyhe Ghiah, but that is all. Their soul is gone from his side. Instead of the connection they once shared, Fray will have to guess at their future reactions and emotions, relying only on what knowledge he had of them before. <br/>
<br/>
<em>This must be what it's like to be just like any other unfortunate fool out there</em>, Fray thinks grimly. Never knowing the inner hearts of your loved ones, never feeling their pain as your own. Never being certain of their thoughts. A barrier of bone and skin placed between them and you, <em>forever</em>, with doubt perpetually hovering at the edges as you are forced to wait and wonder if they have begun to grow weary of your existence.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you well?"<br/>
<br/>
Alphinaud's voice is an entirely unwelcome intrusion. Fray does not want to miss even a second of Titania's parade -- but he must pretend that he is not hypnotized, and so he glances down to the boy. "Merely watching the festivities. They certainly have a great deal of energy, even after routing Eulmore's troops."<br/>
<br/>
Grass whispers beneath the boy's feet as he pads over, boldly joining Fray's side. "A thing of beauty, I must agree! I see our concerns for their ability to withstand the Light were for naught. I am as eager as Alisaie to meet this new Titania and exchange pleasantries with them. They appear in your form, but with wings, is that it?"<br/>
<br/>
The question would be uncomfortably close to mockery, were it to come from a stranger -- which Alphinaud does not realize he <em>is</em>, in too many ways. The boy speaks with ignorance and overfamiliarity, all the carelessness of one who believes himself to be conversing with a dear friend whom they have survived wars and great battles with. A trusted ally, who has always supported Alphinaud through both sorrow and triumph, crossing the full length of Eorzea together and back.<br/>
<br/>
Fray is not that friend. But he must pretend to be, enough that no one decides he is a trick to discard in order to force the real Warrior to return. "They're a pixie," he shrugs, and assumes nonchalance. "In time, they will grow weary of my face and change it for a better fashion. I would be surprised if they haven't done so already."<br/>
<br/>
The ruse is sufficient; Alphinaud chuckles, planting his hands on his hips as he surveys the glittering fields stretching out past Lydha Lran. "As long as it is not myself or Alisaie," he agrees. "I do recall how free the sylphs of the Source were in assuming similar illusions. This one and that one, dancing one and walking one, even Thancred himself -- "<br/>
<br/>
Fray closes his eyes with a short, bitter inhalation of prayer to whichever god is foolish enough to listen. Even that brief exchange has already spent all his stamina for pretense. Every one of his nerves feels exhausted and raw, scarred by a loss that he cannot even mourn, for Fray was the one who insisted it be given away. <br/>
<br/>
"Best rest yourself, boy -- Alphinaud," he catches himself, firmly digging out the few memories he has of how the Warrior had treated the Leveilleurs before. "We've a long road back to the Crystarium, and there may well be Eulmore's soldiers lying in wait. There's no need to humiliate ourselves by routing Ran'jit here, only to fall prey to him a few steps out."<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, Alphinaud's distraction keeps him from noticing anything amiss. All across Longmirror Lake, the Fuath have begun a new game, shooting up tumultuous waterspouts which seem deliberately aimed at any low-flying pixies. "Back to the Crystarium and away from here for the nonce," he remarks pleasantly, and lifts an arm to cheer as one pair of pixies transforms an attacking waterfall into a pillar of pink slime. <br/>
<br/>
Fray ignores the fuss. Tomorrow, he must turn his back on Lyhe Ghiah and move on from Il Mheg. He must pretend to be able to do this with eagerness and not regret, when every ilm of him wants nothing more than to rush back up to the castle doors and push inside, and wrap his arms around his missing heart.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
The Exarch, unaccountably, looks equally horrified as the Scions describe the night's return to Il Mheg. Though it is expressed in fractional ways -- the hood obscuring the majority of the man's features -- Fray can read it in the rest of his body. The Exarch's knuckles tighten on his staff, shoulders tensing as he angles his gaze back and forth, as if something troubles him about the folds of his cowl: some personal agitation that is trapped beneath the fabric with no other means to demonstrate it.<br/>
<br/>
But his voice remains calm and unflappable as he addresses the room, holding dominion over the Ocular like an emperor at his own court -- despite his denials of rulership. "Full glad am I to hear of your victory in Il Mheg, and of the freedom of Titania! Their imprisonment had been a cruel one, and unbefitting of the memory of the King they had once been. They were kind to me in the early days of the Crystarium, and I am grateful that you were able to bring them mercy." <br/>
<br/>
The formalities do not last long; even as the Scions are nodding, acknowledging the victories won, the Exarch moves on swiftly. His attention swings back to Fray like a gunner at the sights. "Yet there is more which troubles me about your tale. The new Faerie King holds not one Warden's worth of Light, but two. We <em>must</em> consider the risk of their continuing to contain it."<br/>
<br/>
There is a peculiar delight in being able to distress the Exarch, Fray decides; he savors it like a strong vinegar, letting only a drop of it console his appetite. Circumstances alone have given him nothing but livid distrust for the man. There are a million better ways to ask for help than kidnapping someone into a different world and forcing them to labor for you. Anyone who can reach across the rift and pluck people's souls like ticks from their bodies is a creature to be wary of. To target specific individuals, no matter how clumsily -- to target the Warrior of Light himself -- is as dangerous as an Ascian, particularly when battlefields are involved.<br/>
<br/>
Entire nations could be robbed at whim. And -- on a practical note -- Fray finds it far more irritating that the Exarch did not simply purloin the entire Garlean royal family from the Source, which would have been a <em>much </em>more effective solution for any number of problems.<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs at the first moment where he can interject a question, keeping careful watch over his voice to sound optimistic rather than darkly amused. "Is there such a danger? So long as the Light is contained safely within one whom it cannot harm, why is it even a problem? The night has returned, and I need only gather the rest, correct?"<br/>
<br/>
As one, the room turns to him; Alisaie is the first to glance back, pointedly, towards the Exarch, who clears his throat.<br/>
<br/>
"Indeed," the man acknowledges. "Yet in matters of one's aetheric balance, we dare not leave each possibility unexamined. The blessing of Light should render the Light's corruption inert -- so long as it is held by one of sufficient strength. Thus, the bearer does not become a Lightwarden, nor does the land around them suffer the consequences. And <em>yet</em>," he continues heavily, tapping his staff against the floor as he paces in a long, slow arc across the front of the room, "never before have I heard of the blessing being spread across more than its original recipient. Even the Oracle of Light has only passed it directly to her own reincarnations."<br/>
<br/>
Beside Thancred, Minfilia shuffles her feet nervously, her bootheels loud against the stone floor. The Exarch does not call upon her. It is towards Fray that he turns instead, watching him from beneath his heavy cowl, and Fray inwardly curses the hood which blocks the man's eyes and masks his intentions.<br/>
<br/>
All at once, the ornate staff in the Crystal Exarch's grip shifts its balance slightly, the head of it rotating towards the Scions like a key rolling open the tumblers of a lock. Overhead, false stars glitter in fresh constellations across the crystal ceiling: either mere illusions, or a sign of the Tower's energies gathering to its master's call.<br/>
<br/>
Then the Exarch pauses, sighing deeply, as if some unknown reminder has pulled him short. "But there is much we do not yet know fully about the nature of the blessing of Light, as well as the Lightwardens. And, as much as I mislike the possibility," he continues, his tone softening even as the words themselves lean into veiled warnings, "there is always a chance that the Light may not be entirely quiescent even when nullified by Hydaelyn's protection, though it remains contained within the walls of its cage. Without deeper investigation, we have no knowledge of how your newly-shared aether may be able to protect Titania from afar -- <em>or</em> how it might interact with their own magicks."<br/>
<br/>
Fray does not bother to act surprised at the revelation, late as it comes. <em>He</em> could feel the corrosive weight of the Light from the very first Warden they had slain, nesting like a tumor against the Warrior's soul, forcing itself into the corners of the body -- and harming Fray along with it. It had been hard for him to think around its influence; now that it is gone, he is not enough of a fool to consider such effects as mere imagination. It had never been docile, even with the whole of the Warrior's strength caging it. The Light had always been a threat.<br/>
<br/>
<em>He</em>, at least, knew all along about that part of the Exarch's lies.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, Fray watches the other Scions. The twins react appropriately, dread clear upon both their features. Thancred grimaces, looking weary rather than intimidated, and rubs a calloused palm over his face before running a thumb across his cartridge belt. <br/>
<br/>
But Urianger -- <em>Urianger</em> only continues to look grim, holding his tongue rather than launching into new conjecture, and that alone is telling.<br/>
<br/>
This is no surprise to either the Exarch or Urianger, Fray decides. Another person might have glossed over it, giving them the benefit of the doubt -- but Fray has no time to indulge in such idiocies. <br/>
<br/>
"Yet Titania was unaffected, and the skies are dark." He does not know the Exarch's game. But it is clear that there <em>is</em> one, and Fray has just upended it. He fishes again for more insight, returning to the same stubborn point that he had stuck to in Il Mheg. "Believe me, if the new King had been at risk of changing, I would have never survived to make it back here."<br/>
<br/>
"And still, the chance remains," the Exarch insists. "As Titania is a being empowered by nature itself and guarded by all their nation, it will be drastically more difficult to monitor their well-being, and to perform countermeasures if something were to go wrong. We would minimize the dangers by focusing your strength, rather than diffusing it -- and also protect <em>them </em>as well, by taking that exposure away from Il Mheg."<br/>
<br/>
Once, the Warrior would have meekly nodded along with such logic, accepting such decisions being made without their input, trusting in scholars and generals and city-state leaders to declare what might be the wisest course of action. Fray already knows he is not them. And, for some things even now -- knowing the danger -- he cannot allow himself to pretend to be. <br/>
<br/>
He takes a different tactic instead, one so blisteringly direct that he expects none of the Scions have thought up a defense against it. "If Titania turns," he points out, "then I will handle it, Exarch. Isn't <em>that</em> why I'm here in the first place? So you can send me out like a pet hound to kill the Lightwardens in whatever shape they come?"<br/>
<br/>
The boldness of Fray's question draws even Alphinaud's gaze towards the front of the room. Caught under such bluntness, the Exarch has no choice but to acknowledge it. "Yes. This is true. But -- mayhap if we could simply examine Titania with our resources, we might be able to evaluate the strength of their spirit, and put our minds at ease. Mayhap they have... merely lacked the <em>opportunity </em>to fully consider the risk."<br/>
<br/>
The audacity of such a ploy earns a snort from Fray, bald-faced as it is. "I've a better suggestion." Yanking off his glove with short, swift jerks to the leather of each finger, he shoves his bare hand in the air meaningfully, displaying it for scrutiny. "Examine <em>me</em> instead. I'll kill the next <em>three</em> Lightwardens, and you can consider just how much injury I take. If you find any cause for concern before then, you'll have your answer on Titania's behalf."<br/>
<br/>
As a counterpoint, even Fray knows it's a terrible idea. As an option, it's the only one he has. As dangerous as it is to offer himself up as a distraction, the alternative is to allow the Scions to poke and prod at Titania -- and Fray might as well bring about the rest of the Flood himself at that point.<br/>
<br/>
The attempt backfires, however; the Exarch seizes upon it too quickly, pursuing the lead like a hunting dog scenting blood. "Urianger told me that your aether had taken on a different pallor," he remarks, and nods towards the same hand that Fray has thrust out. "Polarized towards Astral -- which, I must assume, is the result of what must have been all the Light within your soul having been bestowed upon Titania. Luckily enough, it does not seem so severe as to not be capable of recovering on its own, influenced naturally from your environment -- particularly here, of all places, with the First in such disarray. But, until that occurs, it may be far riskier to send you against even a single Lightwarden in your current condition. Can half a blessing truly protect you enough?"<br/>
<br/>
It is at this moment that Fray draws his sword.<br/>
<br/>
The blade glistens with a blue sheen, capturing each stray mote of the Ocular's luminescence as its own. Fray turns it around effortlessly, the entire mass rotating neatly in his fingers as he aims it downward -- and drives it, uncaringly, directly into the Exarch's finely polished crystal floor, so lovingly tended that not even a scuff has defiled its facade. <br/>
<br/>
Thankfully enough, the blade's point does not shatter, which would have wasted the drama of the gesture. The stone cracks first, fracture lines cobwebbing out from the impact, and Fray spares a moment of gratitude for Nero's obsession for his new Scaevan works.<br/>
<br/>
"It will be strong enough," he declares, and plants both hands on the sword's hilt, leaning his full weight further into it. "Because it will be as strong as <em>I</em> am."<br/>
<br/>
In the silence, he surveys the room, relishing the way all their protests have dwindled out.<br/>
<br/>
"Go on," he urges them softly. "Let us see <em>exactly</em> how long a dark knight can stand against the Light."</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
He expects the Scions to give him a width berth after that as they all disperse, trickling back through the Crystarium on various errands. Urianger elects to linger behind, claiming some need for the Exarch's assistance in interpreting some piece of Voeburtite history. Thancred and Minfilia disappear to the markets, with the latter shrouded beneath a heavy hood to deflect too much attention.<br/>
<br/>
But Alisaie drifts closer to Fray than to her brother, until Alphinaud finally vanishes in the direction of what looks like an eatery in search of dinner, and she remains. She is lighter on her feet than her twin, trotting along with her sword bouncing lightly on her hip and her eyes fixed on some point in the distance -- and perfectly willing to travel all the way back to Lakeland, it seems, judging by how readily she follows along beside him.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, Fray breaks the standoff first by coming to an abrupt halt; Alisaie stops as well, so quickly that her boots cut a divot in the grass. He turns a considering look upon her. "Aren't you hungry?"<br/>
<br/>
"Alphinaud knows to bring back enough food for the both of us, or else he will sup upon regret," she answers breezily, surveying the walkways around them. Then she looks back up to him, and some of her brashness fades into trepidation. "I'll not keep you from your business. I simply wanted to say..."<br/>
<br/>
She trails off there helplessly as her conversational skills skitter out of reach, pressing her lips together in firm displeasure. Fray can sympathize: far easier to simply stab something, and call it done. <br/>
<br/>
The crowd files around them, intent on their own errands and meal-taking. Fray wrinkles his nose in a frown, but resists the urge to kick out to clear some space. Finally, jostled by one roegadyn -- one <em>galdjent</em>, rather, another thing Fray will have to learn -- Alisaie gathers herself and opens her mouth even as she continues to grimace at the necessity of tact.<br/>
<br/>
"You were with us when we discovered our grandfather's fate in the Coils," she begins. "'Twas was a distressing experience, to say the least. Alphinaud and I weren't exactly in the best of shape throughout. It... wasn't the best time for us."<br/>
<br/>
Fray lets her comment pass without protest. He barely has any recollection of the place, all borrowed from the Warrior's memories during a few campfire evenings with nothing else to talk about save poor stew and the costs of armor repairs. "If that wasn't your best, it's still a damned sight better than most," he reasons. "You're not drowning yourselves early in a tankard, like half the idiots out there."<br/>
<br/>
She does not accept the easy way out, shaking her head resolutely as her braid flicks back and forth. "It certainly <em>felt</em> like our worst at the time. And then with that whole ridiculousness with the Crystal Braves! 'Tis a mercy my brother had you there, or else I can scarce imagine how much worse it would have turned out for him." With a snort, Alisaie rolls her eyes, and then gathers herself once more to force her way through the remainder of the speech. "What I mean to say is -- even if you're not at your best right now, Alphinaud and I are both here for you too. If you need it."<br/>
<br/>
If the offer had come from someone more fluent in diplomacy, Fray might have simply turned and resumed walking. As it is, the suggestion feels pointless. It stems from a foolish, misplaced loyalty to a person who merely wears a familiar face; Alisaie would not say the same things to Fray if she knew the truth.<br/>
<br/>
But the Warrior would have thanked her, and -- as Fray looks down at Alisaie, seeing the grit in her expression, the determination that he can recognize and respect -- he thinks about how she had stood up for him in direct defiance of Urianger's questioning. How Alphinaud had simply nodded and not remarked on anything being odd at all; a fact which, Fray had thought, was simple witlessness on the boy's part at the time. <br/>
<br/>
Even if it <em>is</em> misguided, he can appreciate the leeway of their permission. Two less people for him to be perfect around means he can keep his energy focused on fooling the others; Fray can appreciate that much, at least.<br/>
<br/>
"Go on," he encourages Alisaie, not wanting to ruin her gesture by offering some soppy, sentimental quip back. He makes another jerk of his head towards the walkway, and feels his mouth quirk in a smile despite himself. "If you don't get back to your quarters soon, your brother may well eat both your shares of dinner after all. But if he <em>does</em>, there's a waterway right here for you to dump his smallclothes down -- and I'm willing to help."</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
The Crystarium is different when it is only him looking out upon it. Fray hadn't paid any particular attention to the glittering city when the Warrior had first arrived, and now he discovers the cost of his neglect as he wanders around and around in circles after leaving Alisaie, lost like a fly battering against the crystal domes, trying to use the main aetheryte as some sort of guidepost and continually getting trapped by all the wrong buildings in the process.<br/>
<br/>
Everyone smiles at him. Complete strangers look at him directly, offering him greetings that he has no idea how to answer. It's disorienting how they can all <em>see </em>him, when he's so accustomed to being a whisper on the edge of the Warrior's thoughts. Now every single person out there has the ability to interact with Fray's presence, whether he wants them to or not; he can't simply fade away, manifesting a temporary shell of aether and collapsing it again when he's done. <br/>
<br/>
He tries to offer thin, half-interested smiles back, hoping to look busy enough that no one might stop him for actual conversation, and rushes past.<br/>
<br/>
The task is monumental. Fray has only his memories to go on, without the luxury of rooting through Titania's thoughts anymore. He'd become accustomed to idly reviewing faces and names as the Warrior had slogged through yet another Coerthan snowdrift, browsing through the collected impressions like a disorganized library. He barely knows anyone; he never cared before. He never thought he <em>had</em> to.<br/>
<br/>
But now this is all his: his to preserve, and not to ruin, lest the Scions realize how they have been fooled, and so Fray is in the position of having to at least falsify the ability to care. <br/>
<br/>
He skirts like a thief around the more populated corridors, getting lost in the maze of the Crystarium's stairwells and nearly panicking when a merchant tries to solicit him for a new greatsword. When he finally struggles his way to their room -- <em>his </em>room now, only his -- he finds himself coming to a halt only a few fulms within the door.<br/>
<br/>
The Warrior's possessions are still scattered around their quarters. What few supplies they had gathered on the First are left unsorted in various piles: a wad of clothes in the corner, a few saddlebags for traveling by amaro. A motley assortment of potions is lined up on one table -- either too weak for combat, or too potent to use wastefully -- along with a cordial that needed to either be sold or used. Even more knickknacks have been entrusted to retainers back on the Source, their storehouses bulging with objects that were kept purely from sentiment -- sentiments which Fray does not share, and so all those items are meaningless now.<br/>
<br/>
Fray stands there for a moment, half-expecting the body to move without him, as it has always done before: its reins held by the Warrior, bumbling about their quarters in the business of winding down for rest, idly setting aside their sword and armor, and preparing for the next day. <br/>
<br/>
He waits, and waits, and nothing happens.<br/>
<br/>
Eventually, he hauls out a chair and drapes his sword and belts across it, pulling off bits of his armor piecemeal and remembering -- vaguely -- the process of eating. He picks halfheartedly at the dinner tray that is brought in when he asks for it, stubbornly disinterested in the flavors of the food even as his stomach growls for more. By now, the Warrior would have been undergoing the process of washing their face and kicking up their feet on the nearest table like an uncultured barbarian, shaking out their pouches of crumbs and stray coins, and reviewing scribbled notes and missives from the day's affairs.<br/>
<br/>
All of these tasks will not happen on their own. Fray is alone. He must do it all himself.<br/>
<br/>
That night, he haphazardly dumps the rest of their armor on the nearest table, finishing off the last scrap of bread and gravy without savoring any of the taste. He sleeps in a bed which still smells of the Warrior, breathing in the lingering sweat and armor polish on the sheets, and when he wakes the next day -- blinking up at the ceiling in confusion at the silence around him, hands and legs moving by his intention alone -- he calls out three times for them in his mind before remembering that it is no longer the name they answer to.<br/>
<br/>
The ache of surprise that follows is already a dull one, settling into what he knows will be a permanent spot in his chest. Shoving back the blankets, Fray gets up, and readies himself for another day of pretending to be someone else.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
He makes enough noise over the need to practice that the Scions agree to delay the trip to the Rak'tika Greatwood, granting him a reprieve while they pack their supplies, hunt out stray Sin Eaters near Holminster Switch, and look for gifts for Y'shtola and the Night's Blessed -- friendly overtures for the latter, desperate appeasements for the first. Fray slips through the gates to Lakeland in the meantime, making a stern nod to the guards as he passes by in hopes of faking official business.<br/>
<br/>
The body is familiar enough. He knows its proportions, the way it moves. The weaknesses that make it stumble. The slight hitch in the right knee that needs to get stretched out if he holds a defensive stance too long: the result of an injury back in the Coerthas Western Highlands, fighting yeti. But most often, Fray knows the body as experienced <em>through</em> someone else. Only rarely had he ever stepped forward and taken direct command; even then, there had always been another's presence there with him, working in unified intent.<br/>
<br/>
The greatsword fits well in his hands, at least. He makes a few test swings, gathering up aether with laughable ease and shaping it in circles around his feet. He works through the basic exercises, stirring up a sleepy anger to help him focus, and then sets to work on the few triffids aggressive enough to lurch towards him, vexed at his intrusion in their forest. <br/>
<br/>
Killing them is barely worth the trouble. Fray focuses more on the flow of the battle itself, shifting back and forth between postures of aggression as he gauges the readiness of his own aether, now slanted towards whatever nonsense an Astral alignment might entail. Summoning it has not changed. His spirit feeds him a steady stream of emotions, allowing him to pick and choose at whatever impulse strikes him next, so that he rolls fluidly from spite to pride, and from there into malice. The entire act of combat feels as fluid as a limb which had always been held back before by a cramped muscle -- and yet, something remains missing. <br/>
<br/>
As Fray finishes his last sweep across the hillside, dispatching another belligerent seedkin, he stops and stares at the ground as the adrenaline drains out of him and shows him the difference.<br/>
<br/>
It feels empty. <em>He</em> feels empty. Not from the actual act of slaughter; Fray did not seek meaning out of it, and therefore isn't disappointed at what is merely a physical exercise. But as the rush of bloodlust seeps to a sluggish halt within him, there is no other mind that stirs to replace it. Battle had always been a means to an end for the Warrior, not a pleasure in of itself. By now, they would have inevitably reassured their will, counting their wounds and rallying their strength for the next task ahead.<br/>
<br/>
He already knew that they were gone. Ever since Il Mheg, he had known.<br/>
<br/>
It is intolerable.<br/>
<br/>
Ignoring the woods entirely now, Fray turns his concentration inwards. The abyss has always been his cradle; his awareness sinks easily within the darkness, undeterred by the sharp, lingering fragments of the emotions he had wielded in the fight. Up until so recently, there had been other thoughts there. Other reactions. Guilt. Hope. Curiosity, even. The Warrior's soul had always been so <em>noisy</em>, chattering away even after Fray had taught them to meditate upon the abyss for clarity. They had cared so easily about everything and everyone around them, fondness leaking out of them at a moment's notice -- so that all it would take would be a qiqirn or kobold tugging on their sleeve, and they would be off again to save some filthy pack of rodents, heroically flinging themselves to rescue creatures they had become fiercely protective of within only a few lines of quaint conversation. <br/>
<br/>
Even <em>he </em>had been included within their affection. The Warrior had known Fray first as their teacher, and then as their darkside and opponent -- and then as a partner, welcoming the other's presence freely, fighting side by side with a grin on their face. There had been room in their heart even for him.<br/>
<br/>
The abyss remains empty of any flame. Despite how desperately he strains towards the thin thread holding his and Titania's lives together, Fray cannot hear a thing.<br/>
<br/>
The massive weight of his greatsword slips through his fingers, plunging to the dirt. He pays it no heed. All his attention is bent towards the abyss. There is a connection between him and Titania -- he <em>knows </em>there is. And if he can only seize it, use it to wrench open the doorway again between them, then maybe, just <em>maybe</em> -- <br/>
<br/>
"Oi! You there, stranger! Wicked white, you're not an eater, are you? Are you about to <em>turn?</em>"<br/>
<br/>
The shout rattles through the air like a wheelcart with a broken axle. Jolted out of his meditation, Fray opens his eyes with a growl of frustration that he does not bother to hide. <br/>
<br/>
On the path down the hill, a pair of guards are peering up at him warily, their spears already aimed in his direction. Both wear the colors of the Crystarium. The shorter one must have been the one who had spoken, for she shuffles a step closer, shoulders rigid. She is a miqo'te woman; her ears are flattened in distress, tail lashing as she prepares herself for what she expects is an attack.<br/>
<br/>
Fray can hardly blame the woman for her suspicions. He can well imagine the vision he must present: a crazed madman out wandering the woods with a sword, standing around just waiting for someone to approach him so he can drag them off to an abandoned storehouse and leave a legacy of horror stories behind. <br/>
<br/>
Then the other guard elbows her in the shoulder. "That's one of the Exarch's <em>guests</em>," he hisses, clearly torn between puffing himself up with confidence, and looking equally nervous. He looks just as green as her, though not spared from battle; a still-healing cut puckers the skin over his left cheek, wadding it into an angry red streak. He loops his thumbs into his swordbelt, trying his best to look jaded as he grins nervously at Fray. "Just -- performing a foreign custom of your land, I suppose? Envisioning your next fight to come? Praying to your gods?"<br/>
<br/>
<em>I could kill them both</em>, Fray muses idly out of habit, and then -- when no voice of refusal rises in his mind to keep him in check -- he closes his eyes briefly in a resigned sigh.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes." He shifts his eyes away from the miqo'te and back again, imagining the angle of attack he might make, as if he could somehow bait Titania to leap into his mind and offer a lecture against murder. "I was praying. No, you wouldn't recognize to whom. You're safe to move along."<br/>
<br/>
They leave after a series of nods, all too eager to depart without looking back to see if he's chosen to pursue them. Poor training on their part. If Fray had betting odds, he would wager on both of them dying within a moon. <br/>
<br/>
He turns a grim stare towards the ground once the patrol has vanished back into the woods. It is vastly tempting to blame his failure on their interruption -- but that would be a pathetic form of denial. It is no use. If Fray could have found Titania, he <em>would </em>have by now. He knew what it would mean when he volunteered to separate from the Warrior; Feo Ul had not concealed the nature of their division.<br/>
<br/>
Titania is gone from him now. <em>This</em> will be how Fray will fight for the rest of his existence, free to use whatever darkness he sees fit to lash out at the enemy, never criticized or restrained -- and entirely without company.<br/>
<br/>
The truth never changes with each fresh sweep of his sword. He wanders through the Forest of the Lost Shepherd, killing whatever he sees fit, and never once hears any sign of protest in the back of his mind. With each beast he cuts down, the aether flows smoothly from his will to his blade, leaping in ragged spikes through the air and wrapping around him in protective warning. Each time another creature dies, Fray finds himself waiting for the slightest whisper back.<br/>
<br/>
Only at the end of it all -- as the sky begins to darken to night and Fray finds himself standing in the middle of the woods waiting for a voice that never comes -- does he remember that he must be the one to head back to the Crystarium. He must walk the path back, each step of the way. Go to his rooms, clean his sword and armor, strip his soiled clothes off for washing. Possibly even eat, or drink something or both. Sleep -- that has to happen as well. <br/>
<br/>
Wake up when the morning comes, in a room empty of all save himself.  </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
As a small mercy, he finds cause to return to Il Mheg soon enough -- without the company of the Scions, thankfully, for every pixie he meets flutters around him gaily, giggling and fawning over his arrival.<br/>
<br/>
"Shove off," he growls, resisting the urge to grab them and spin them around like pinwheels by their feet. "I <em>mean</em> it," he adds, poking a finger into another's chest as they dare to flutter closer and play with his hair. "I'll squeeze the life out of each and every one of you, and then let Titania yell at me about it later."<br/>
<br/>
They dart away merrily, somersaulting across the flower-coated ruins -- and then Fray watches them suddenly point at something over his shoulder, their eyes widening with delight.<br/>
<br/>
It is either a faerie trick or a faerie bluff -- or both, one leading naturally to the other -- but either way, he wheels around just in time to see the leaves of Feo Ul's wings descending like a hawk diving from the air. <br/>
<br/>
At the last second, he leans aside far enough to miss the pixie's enthusiastic attempt to latch onto his head, and smirks when Feo Ul tumbles end-over-end in a failed attempt to stop their momentum. Shrieks of amusement erupt around them at the sight, which rapidly transform into shrieks of horror as Feo Ul dives for the other pixies next, chasing them back and forth around the overgrown rooftops. <br/>
<br/>
Fray waits for the furor to die down, taking advantage of the pixies' inattention to check on his armor. A few of the buckles need replacement. His left bracer is chafing near his wrist, which he dimly remembers the Warrior continually forgetting to attend to. Somehow, a luminous caterpillar the size of his thumb is already trying to spin a cocoon on the back of his left boot; he picks it off sternly and gives it a glare until it has the decency to uncurl and trundle away.<br/>
<br/>
When Feo Ul comes puffing back, one leg coated in what looks like azure ooze, Fray merely offers them a raised eyebrow and makes the mental note not to let them wipe it off on him when he's not looking.<br/>
<br/>
"Well!" Hands on their hips, the pixie stomps their dirtied foot in the air, failing to shed any of the goop. "I see <em>you've</em> been gathering all manner of admirers, Ul Tyr! I never!"<br/>
<br/>
Unworried by the topic of faerie jealousies, Fray shrugs luxuriously, and hefts his greatsword back in place against his shoulders. "It's Titania they like, not me. I suppose I'm lucky that they accept me so easily. I half-expected to come here and fight my way through riddles once more."<br/>
<br/>
"We pixies are all born of another's aether," Feo Ul replies beatifically. Ire temporarily sated, they flit forward along the path, rolling in mid-air with the sinuous grace of an eel to make certain he is following dutifully behind. "Therefore, you are natural kin to us in this manner, Ul Tyr. I look forward to <em>your </em>wings as well someday. How lovely they will shine!"<br/>
<br/>
The mental image is a horrifying one; Fray attempts with all his might to ignore it. "And Titania?" The question is more panicked than he intends. All he had thought about for the entire trip over was the conclusion that the Exarch had kept pressing towards: that if Fray had been aligned towards Astral, then Titania would surely be on the side of Umbral, and already overwhelmed by the balance of Light. "How are they doing?"<br/>
<br/>
Feo Ul giggles, performing another pirouette on the breeze. "You'll discover <em>that</em> for yourself soon enough, Ul Tyr. Now, hurry up before the amaro take flight without us, or else you'll have to swim!"<br/>
<br/>
He spends the flight in restless worry, watching the lake ripple out below them. Even knowing how thickly the lake is infested by Fuath, the sight concerns him less than it should; the kami's blessing, thankfully, had stuck with the body, as far as his experiments with his bathwater had panned out. Instead, he can indulge in appreciating the clarity of the water itself, allowing him to see all the way to the bottom, where the ruins of Deepwood -- and the bones of ill-fated travelers -- continue to slowly decay.<br/>
<br/>
It is quiet in the castle, unexpectedly. Fray shoves the doors open with only a brief push of his hand, the hinges either being engineered or bespelled to be light. He crosses over the threshold without bothering to announce himself, hearing the uncomfortable echo of his own boots ricocheting through the foyer -- and then he is inside.<br/>
<br/>
Titania is there.<br/>
<br/>
The sight of them empties out his mind of all thought save longing. They resemble the Warrior of Light still in so many ways -- but crowned, regal, sceptre in hand and necklace around their throat. Their hair is long, a familiar mahogany at the roots, but ebbing to the color of sunlight by the ends. Unbound, it drifts behind them in a loose cloud like the flame on a candle or the roots of a fern, suspended in unseen currents of water and rippling with brilliance. The silk of their gown laps smoothly down their body, frothing open around their legs: a deep green that is cousin to oak leaves or pliant summer's moss, and Fray wants to cradle them like a newborn sun in his hands and breathe in the fragrance of everything they have become.<br/>
<br/>
But it is their wings which stand out the most, spread wide in a halo behind them and gently flexing in time with every breath. Each one is like a jewel laid out into ornate panes of crystal, tinted in shimmering oranges and fringed with wide streaks of gold. Spots of light speckle them further, scattered haphazardly over each wing, as if a passing rainshower had decorated them with water and each droplet is reflecting back pure sunlight.<br/>
<br/>
The pattern is distinctive enough that Fray scours his mind until he can recall a brief, partial image of butterflies from the Source: orange framed in black and freckled with white, stark contrasts that only serve to enhance the color within.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Monarch wings</em>, he thinks. It's fitting in every way.<br/>
<br/>
The previous Titania was like silver and jewels, blue oceans and amethysts. This new Titania is like the earth in summer, warm and rich and growing. They embody a forest that the Black Shroud itself would envy, its living seasons wrapped into a single form -- and for all Titania's beauty, Fray cannot help the spike of fear that wriggles into his chest as he realizes the significance of <em>what </em>that reveals about the new King.<br/>
<br/>
These are the colors of nature -- but of the forests of <em>Eorzea</em>. Not Il Mheg. Such hues do not come from a faerie's garden. They are mundane colors of simple earth and leaves, the world that farmers would expect to see while tilling their fields and planning for the harvest. <br/>
<br/>
Perhaps, one day, these colors will be the only marker left to prove that Titania was once mortal, when all else has faded away. <br/>
<br/>
But the illusion of ethereal perfection shatters as an expression darkens Titania's face, one that does not belong on any pixie: that of sorrow, their mouth twisting down in shame. "Fray," they begin quietly. "I am sorry -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Don't." Holding up a hand, Fray strides forward, purposefully brisk and unworried. "Don't even start. This is what I've always asked to have, remember? Control over the body, while you sit back somewhere safe and watch. If anyone should be apologizing, it's <em>me</em>, for getting you stuck with these crazed insects. How is it like, being royalty now? Everything you imagined?"<br/>
<br/>
He had hoped for levity to do the trick, but Titania only makes a small, half-shake of their head, the kind that Fray recognizes as pensive despite how much they're trying to convince the world otherwise. "Feo Ul was right. It <em>is</em> hard to be King." Their arms cross tightly in dismay; even their wings tilt inwards. "I keep reminding myself not to worry about the rest of the First, or even the Source, and it seems impossible at times. It was good that we agreed I should avoid the Crystarium and the Scions while you settle in. Otherwise, the temptation would be too strong to try and help. To give Lakeland better crops to help the refugees from Holminster Switch, or offer spies to investigate Eulmore, or to dig up all the coin of Voeburt for the Crystarium's war coffers." They fall quiet for a moment, their mouth still struggling on the line between a smile and a frown, sad either way. "It would seem so <em>easy</em>... and I would feel so guilty for having to say no."<br/>
<br/>
"But the <em>faeries</em>, at least, I hope aren't giving you any trouble." Desperate to divert the conversation away, Fray flaps his hand back towards the vast, stained glass windows, dragging his fingers through a stream of rainbow reflections. "Do they treat you well? Or do they just jabber all day long like a pack of paissa?"<br/>
<br/>
At last, humor softens the corner of Titania's mouth, crooking it upwards before vanishing all too quickly. "Their only desire right now is that I'm happy. I don't think I'm very good at it. It feels like something I haven't practiced in a very long while." They shake their head again, more slowly this time; their hair curls and drifts through the air in aftertrails to the motion. "I don't know if I'm doing it right. But all the faeries -- even the Fuath -- say to take it at my own pace. How long has it been since I've had a chance to actually <em>do</em> that?" The question wavers with disbelief, turning brittle even as they ask it. "Even on Eorzea, it felt like one Primal after another, one <em>death</em> after another, again and <em>again</em> -- " <br/>
<br/>
The timbre of their voice hitches. Lifting their hands, Titania rubs at their face -- and then stops suddenly, holding both palms in place as their breathing goes ragged and harsh, struggling to master it back under control.<br/>
<br/>
Fray does not wait. He steps forward, reaching out to cup the back of Titania's head in support as they breathe deeply: in and out, out and in, exhaling grief like poison forced into their very blood in order to find a place to store it.<br/>
<br/>
"Then it sounds like," he tells them firmly, "<em>that's</em> what you need to focus on first, as King. I'll handle everything else. Do you trust me?"<br/>
<br/>
Gradually, the pace of Titania's lungs eases up; they no longer sound as if they are seeking to drown themselves with an influx of air. They stir, lifting their head, and he can glimpse a faint thread of their amusement: wan, but struggling to return. "I <em>know </em>you, Fray. You are my darkside. You <em>yourself </em>tell me not to trust you every -- no. I apologize."<br/>
<br/>
<em>Every day</em>, Fray hears in the gap, cut off after it was already too late to avoid the sting. Every day.<br/>
<br/>
Not anymore.<br/>
<br/>
He shoves aside his own self-pity as he sees the reminder already starting to dim Titania's mood. "Good. Then you haven't forgotten the basics -- despite being surrounded by these fleece-brained gnats." His attempt to ruffle their hair only ends up tangling his fingers in the cloud-like wisps, and he makes a face as he frees himself carefully without yanking any of the strands out. "Tell me more about what it's like to be a pixie. Do you eat flowers? Rocks? Nu mou?"<br/>
<br/>
Titania holds steady until Fray drops his hand, and then they drift back a step, their gown eddying in the air. "There's a lot that I need to learn, unfortunately. Everything I thought I knew about aether is completely different now, and I'm afraid if I get it wrong, Il Mheg may turn completely blue. Or explode. There's also managing the natural flow of elemental balance throughout the land, and listening to the Fuath ask for the rights to murder more people -- which apparently includes an annual event. They hold competitions, with prizes. I'm supposed to <em>judge</em>." Throwing their palms in the air, Titania makes a shrug of incredulousness, futility, or both. "I haven't caught the hang of changing my size yet, which Feo Ul says is basic for any newborn pixie. I also tried my hand at a leafman the other day, with some poor sheep as the target. It... wasn't particularly good. Even Feo Ul was speechless."<br/>
<br/>
"But you <em>can</em> at least fly."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. Somewhat. I keep smacking my wings into doorways and rooftops when I misjudge the angles," they admit, chuckling, and spread their arms and wings both wide in demonstration of their girth. "But walking on the ground already feels strange. Ungainly, like I'm about to trip and flop right over. Be truthful, Fray -- how much have I changed?"<br/>
<br/>
With all his being, Fray wishes for a different answer. That Titania looks like an entirely new pixie, or the previous King, or even an amaro. But they are the <em>same</em>, with their broad mouth and narrow slope of their jaw, the slight rounding of their nose that they have always disliked and which Fray has always been amused by. The disheveled tuft of their bangs, which even kingship has not altered. The sheepish edge of their laughter. Even the faint lines under their eyes, which had seemed to sink deeper with every new morning endured, and every fresh battlefield conquered. <br/>
<br/>
Fray reaches out and catches their chin, instinctively bridging the gap without bothering to warn them first; the intimacy between them has always extended past barriers as flimsy as skin. His thumb strokes along the new smoothness of their jawline. "You will never need to shave again," he remarks.<br/>
<br/>
Titania's mouth twitches. "<em>You</em> will have to remember. There are troubles to having a body. Please do attempt to eat."<br/>
<br/>
The sensation of Titania's breath against his skin is a silken caress, and Fray drops his hand, suddenly pierced by a sharp current of longing. "I make no promises."<br/>
<br/>
He ducks a punch promptly aimed for his shoulder, and bursts into a laugh, dancing back from the assault. "Not very kingly, Titania," he tsks, only to watch them summon their sceptre and attempt to swing it with both hands at him like a club. <br/>
<br/>
After both of them recover from darting around the vast ballroom, laughing like a pair of namazu drunk on tea, Titania flits close to the ground once more. The gleam of their wings echoes off the polished marble, conjuring a hurricane of smaller butterflies in the reflections below; Fray watches the display in willing fascination before the motion reminds him of something else, and he frowns.<br/>
<br/>
"Your attendants are gone? On some mischief or the other, I suppose," he adds, twisting around to look at every corner, just in case the brats might be spying on them both.<br/>
<br/>
Titania shakes their head immediately. "I asked them to leave when I sensed you coming." Their massive wings flutter in renewed agitation -- no, with <em>excitement</em> this time, Fray realizes, seeing the smile playing about their face, barely kept in check. "Here. Feo Ul needs not be the only one who can visit their sapling from afar. Let me become your branch as well, and then I will not have to send them back and forth to play messenger between us. Come, then," they urge eagerly, holding up a hand with their fingers spread, like a child newly discovering their own bones. "Make a pact with me. Feo Ul showed me how."<br/>
<br/>
Fray already has his own hand raised and halfway there before he can make himself pause, squinting doubtfully at Titania. "Have you done this before with anyone?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not from the faerie's side of it, no," they admit. "You are my very first one."<br/>
<br/>
Fray's hand lifts another ilm, and then stops again. "This is the same pixie magick that you <em>just</em> said you're having problems mastering, isn't it."<br/>
<br/>
Titania makes an exasperated laugh, and then it is too late: they are swooping towards him, catching him in their grip, fingers perfectly knitting with his own. Their hand is warm against his palm. Each knuckle matches, mirrors in size and form. Fray struggles to keep his hand still, trying not to let himself become too concerned at how much could go wrong; then the tingle of aether passes over him, and it is done.<br/>
<br/>
As soon as Titania makes a nod, he decides he can no longer wait. Scooping his other arm around their back, he pulls them towards him, as easily as if they were weightless. Despite the wings -- despite the hair, the crown, the immortality -- Titania fits against him perfectly, unchanged in all the ways he has known so dearly, that he has shared alongside them in all their struggles. He can feel the tightness lurking in the muscles along their spine, where they have always stored their tension; the wings block him from checking their shoulders, but he can guess to a similar degree.<br/>
<br/>
He tucks his head against them and breathes in their presence, his cheek tickled by their hair.<br/>
<br/>
"I missed you," he says, honest and uncaring for it. "Everyone imagines me to be a little mad in my wits, but their opinions are worth as much as Syndicate shite. All that matters is that you remain safe."<br/>
<br/>
He shuts his eyes tightly as soon as he finishes speaking, unable to otherwise block out the dread that threatens to choke him. Words are a poor replacement for raw emotion -- but he has no other way to communicate these things to Titania now, save in the clumsy, cheap methods of speech and action. Even with them in his arms, he cannot <em>feel </em>their thoughts echoing back. Their heart is hidden from him here. All Fray can do is guess and hope, and make assumptions. Make <em>mistakes</em>.<br/>
<br/>
It is an unspeakable relief when Titania's other arm wraps around him easily, palm resting against his shoulder. "Fray." His name is like a blessing woven from their voice, a key unlocking him from the chains of pretense he has worn ever since leaving the castle on his own; he feels the tension dissolve out of him all at once, leaving him only able to focus on standing upright, too grateful for any other action. "I am safe because <em>you</em> are. Remember that."<br/>
<br/>
They pull back before he is ready, looking at him from the distance of an arm's length, which already feels like malms apart. "I'll be able to come visit you whenever you need it now, just as Feo Ul does. In time, I should be able to manage crossing to the Source in dreams, once they show me the way. But for now -- this works."<br/>
<br/>
This time, the smile stays on Titania's face, lingering in their eyes. Fray watches it carefully, unwilling to speak and scare it away like a mouse. It is only a little progress -- so tiny that it could be overlooked. But it is a start.<br/>
<br/>
"What?" they ask, their expression changing into a slow, sheepish grin. <br/>
<br/>
Fray can feel his own mouth twitching into an echo, and he lets it: the warmth is a good enough substitute for the emotions he once could pluck from their heart directly. "You're smiling."<br/>
<br/>
"I've smiled before."<br/>
<br/>
"Not like <em>this</em>." He tries to resist the impulse and fails, lifting his hand to trace his thumb over the corner of Titania's lips. "Not for a good, long while. You might be getting the hang of this whole happiness concept after all."<br/>
<br/>
The curve of Titania's mouth only deepens. They glance at him, the feyness of them mixing and mingling with everything Fray remembers, like two currents of water running together, hot and cold. There is so much <em>newness </em>shining in them now, and it is all keyed to the tune of strength: a fresh, pure joy that he has never seen in them before, and that he had never been able to gift to them despite all his hopes. "As are you, Fray. You have full reins over the body, just as you always asked for. What story will you make of it now?"<br/>
<br/>
He snorts, and drops his hand. "You have certainly given me a <em>poor</em> one to inherit. I <em>would</em> have liked to run off to the Source -- but I find myself in the position of having to care for these Scion idiots you're so fond of. We'll be looking for Y'shtola next, it seems. At least, I hope we are. I've no idea how to <em>deal</em> with Urianger -- I always used to tune him out whenever he started talking, and relied on whatever <em>you</em> understood. Now I have to actually listen, and it <em>still </em>doesn't make any sense." He wrinkles his nose in distaste, and then cocks an eyebrow. "What about yourself? What tricks will these murderous, clever little bastards have you doing next, after you've figured out how to turn people into bits of the landscape?"<br/>
<br/>
The attempt at humor works; with each jab, Titania relaxes a little further, until by now they are grinning openly without hesitation. "Should I manage to master basic leafcraft, they've sworn to teach me how to dance. I'm terrible at it, gods forfend -- you <em>know </em>how terrible we are. Come, and help me practice." Fanning their arms open at the vast ballroom around them, Titania bends a hand towards him in invitation. "We can be equally ghastly together."<br/>
<br/>
As satisfying as it is to watch them laugh like this -- to bathe in the rich, chuckling amusement that seeps out of them, as intoxicating as the rarest wines -- there is an agony to it as well. Fray cannot feel their happiness directly. All he can do is stand witness to it, watching the satisfaction of Titania's expression and the pure and uncomplicated pleasure of it all. All he can do is watch from the outside, and appreciate the cruelty of the situation distantly, like an interrogator peeling back the skin on his own fingers for practice.<br/>
<br/>
But the concealment of it works both ways. Titania cannot tell either how much he lies as Fray forces a smile onto his face, chest tight. "I can do no such thing. Do you remember how poorly you performed in Ul'dah?"<br/>
<br/>
"I had cause to learn more since then. The Vanu Vanu were <em>highly</em> impressed, if I recall. Tell me," Titania adds, "does our body still recall the steps of the Sundrop Dance?"<br/>
<br/>
"I have no idea. I've been too busy trying to look like walking around in public is common practice for me, let alone appearing <em>graceful </em>while I do it."<br/>
<br/>
As careless as the phrase is, something in Fray's tone slips out more than he intends; that, or Titania simply knows him that well, for they glance back sharply towards him, eyes narrowing in concern as they search his face.<br/>
<br/>
"Say the word," they promise after a moment, fiercely. "And we will find another way, and bear the Light together. I will devise an alternative, I swear it -- have Feo Ul reign in my stead, mayhap, until all the Wardens are slain. I <em>can </em>find a way to be the Warrior again, so that you will not have to. Say the word," they urge, their voice soft and fervent as they step closer to grip his shoulder, "and come back to me."<br/>
<br/>
For an instant -- a horrifying, overpowering instant -- the agreement is already on Fray's lips, vomiting out of him like regurgitated blood. It moves his mouth for him, near enough to speaking that Fray bites down hard on his own tongue first.<br/>
<br/>
The brightness of the pain steadies him. He shakes his head, shoving away the temptation with as much willpower as he can summon, and dredges up every moment of rancor to keep it there. "And expose you once more to <em>them</em>?" He did not bother to conceal the bitterness in his voice. "With even more power at your disposal? How your precious Scions and the Exarch would delight in using you again! Glad enough they were to throw you to the entire Garlean army on more than one occasion. <em>No.</em>" Forcing his stubbornness back over himself like a shield, Fray meets Titania's gaze and refuses to waver. "I am selfish enough to claim your fate as my own. You would break <em>my </em>heart instead to take it back."<br/>
<br/>
"Fray -- "<br/>
<br/>
He moves as swiftly as an assassin's knife, his thumb silencing their lips. "Wrong. I'm the <em>Warrior</em> now," he corrects. "A mortal fool, sent about by nations like a courier to fill out lists of the dead. And <em>you </em>are Titania, King of the Faeries. That is how it will be, now and <em>forever </em>-- and if I have aught to say about it, then history will know naught else."<br/>
<br/>
At first, Titania resists, a frown beginning to creep around his hand. Then -- as their eyes close for an instant too long -- their own body betrays them with a sigh, their shoulders going slack along with all of their wings, revealing the relief they dare not admit to aloud.<br/>
<br/>
Slowly, like a curtain of water pulling back across stones at a low tide, Fray watches the dread of it seep out of their face, leaving behind only a bleak, bone-deep gratitude which he knows they have never dared to share. <br/>
<br/>
It is the right decision, he knows. All he needs do is remain strong enough to carry it out.<br/>
<br/>
Titania shakes off their melancholy before he does. Their wings spread wide in a ripple of color, golden spots shining like coins in the air. "Come, then," they urge, catching both his hands firmly in their own. "As a King to a Warrior, this is my decree. Share a dance with me, no matter how poorly we both perform, and let no one stand as judge to our amusements."<br/>
<br/>
Before he can protest, Titania pushes themselves upwards, tugging his arms with unrelenting authority -- and then faerie magicks nudge Fray in a hard shove against his back, bunting him like a feisty chocobo and separating his weight from all gravity save for that which ties him to the King.  <br/>
<br/>
His boot scrapes against the ground as he rises, toes barely contacting the ballroom floor. <br/>
<br/>
His next step is on thin air.<br/>
<br/>
Higher and higher they rise as glittering stairs form beneath their feet, supporting each of their clumsy stumbles. Aether weaves trails of glass that melt and reform with every step, spiraling towards the ornate dome of the ceiling. He and Titania splash through rainbows with each dizzying circle they make, painted in hues which pour from one arm to another, one hand to the next.  <br/>
<br/>
There is no structure to their performance. There are no musicians, no onlookers to applaud. The ballroom holds only the two of them, and Fray lets himself be lost to Titania's delighted laughter as they each take turns leading one another by the hand, following no music save that of their own together. </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
Emet-Selch, of course, notices that something is amiss instantly.<br/>
<br/>
But the <em>what</em> of it seems to mystify the Ascian, which is amusing enough to see. In the very first moments of his approach in the Exedra, Emet-Selch seems to have all the answers already in hand, smugly dripping hints of a truth just barely out of reach. And -- though the man seems swept up in the drama of his promises -- there is a hitch in his voice when he looks at Fray sidelong that throws a stumble into his words, and betrays exactly how much the Ascian is there to investigate matters, rather than wed them as allies.<br/>
<br/>
Even after Emet-Selch has regained his smooth, showman's patter, he cannot stop constantly frowning at Fray. At the end of his speech, he turns his head to stare intently at the air -- towards what, Fray knows, is the direction of Il Mheg, as if the man can directly perceive the invisible tether that yolks him and Titania together, like a gossamer thread in the sky. <br/>
<br/>
It is unnerving, the degree of accuracy by which Emet-Selch can pinpoint that bond. Not even Urianger or the Crystal Exarch had noted the connection; if they could, Fray expects he would have heard a lecture about <em>that</em> as well. <br/>
<br/>
And, if Emet-Selch can see the energy of his and Titania's souls, then he may also seek to sever it as well. <br/>
<br/>
Fray opens and closes his right hand firmly once, glove creaking as he imagines the hilt of his greatsword gripped tightly within it, and allows himself the indulgence of wallowing in frustration. Rarely is there worse luck than this. Ascians are hard to kill. <br/>
<br/>
Hard -- but not impossible.<br/>
<br/>
He has more time to assess his potential quarry on the way to the Greatwood, as the Ascian continues to tag along with the Scions, flaunting his ability to wander in and out of their lives at whim. Thancred is the most vexed at all, but even the Oracle takes her own jabs in Emet-Selch's direction, revealing a delightfully tart wit beneath her meekness. Their ire is useful. Fray can let them make the most noise on the journey, a living smokescreen while he holds his tongue and watches for an opening.<br/>
<br/>
The <em>shape</em> of Emet-Selch is the hardest for him to identify. There is a sensation wrapped around the Ascian which Fray can almost touch, like a skim of gelatin in a cup, or the moisture of a humid summer evening. No one else seems to react to it. Fray isn't even certain <em>how </em>he can tell it's there. It is a primal force that ripples off the Ascian, a whisper of energy that feels inexplicably familiar to Fray, even though he knows the two are far from kin.<br/>
<br/>
Darkness, most likely. The Astral alignment of his aether, like the scrapings left behind in a jar after the Umbral had been removed. He does not know all the details -- Urianger makes just as little sense each time that Fray tries to bring the subject up -- but so far, Fray has gathered that the First has uncovered new information about Darkness itself as a force, however scholars consider it. Darkness is Astral: it is <em>motion</em>, change and creation and all manner of other useful rubbish, which Fray feels is particularly apt in describing his newfound existence.<br/>
<br/>
But he is no great arcanist. Magicks of any complexity are beyond him, and he has no interest in such subjects. Fray's incantations have always been constructed from raw emotions, spoken in the formulas of desire and need; he grabs for aether as greedily as a child, demanding it to take shape through sheer force of will alone. And while Emet-Selch's love for theatrics may dismiss Fray outright, and sneer at the skills of the rest of the Scions, Fray has no need of the Ascian's respect in order to kill the man.<br/>
<br/>
It is difficult to keep a placid face during their journey to the Rak'tika Greatwood. Fray only manages through pure spite as the Ascian wheedles his way closer into the group, fishing for hints on Fray's connection with Il Mheg with growing transparency. <br/>
<br/>
Finally Emet-Selch manages to sidle close to Fray's side as the Scions stop for rest. "First the Oracle, now <em>you</em>. Really, you creatures <em>must</em> stop performing these matters of division upon yourselves. Your spirits are flimsy enough. Hydaelyn has truly instilled Her servants with no sense of self-preservation whatsoever." <br/>
<br/>
"Mmhmm." Pretending to make the barest token of understanding of the Ascian's words, Fray continues to search through his packs for a waterskin. So far, Emet-Selch has only seemed to feed off Thancred's outright threats, Urianger's suspicions and Minfilia's wariness. If hostility were enough to drive the Ascian away, it would have already happened. As it is, Fray finds it gratifying to profess ignorance in the face of such monumental arrogance, providing only the basics while remaining utterly honest.<br/>
<br/>
Again, Emet-Selch flitters away through the group -- needling Thancred for a few rounds -- and then returns as the Scions continue the march, this time attempting discretion as he oozes back to walk beside Fray.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell me," he murmurs conspiratorially, a sly smirk framing the question. "What <em>did </em>you do to your soul?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pixies were involved." Fray steps around a particularly slimy-looking toad, which boggles up at him from the mud. It croaks unhappily before submerging itself within the nearest puddle, spattering grime on Fray's boot.<br/>
<br/>
"Ah." Judging from Emet-Selch's tone, Fray's answers continue to be entirely unsatisfactory. The Ascian picks his way with even more care than Fray through the swamp, as if he might somehow care about permanent stains on his robe. "You <em>must </em>tell me more about how they performed such a trick."<br/>
<br/>
"No," Fray replies. "I really don't."</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
The Rak'tika Greatwood offers some basic comfort against the skies, even if Fray can still feel the Light oozing into the trees overhead, dripping down in acid waves through the leaves. It itches over his body, seeping directly past the shell of his armor. Every ilm of his skin feels as burned as if he has spent all day roasting on the beaches of Costa del Sol. His only comfort is how displeased Emet-Selch appears to be as well, both of them stifling an uncomfortable wince as they walk. <br/>
<br/>
The dense forest is enough of a change from Lakeland's bleached trees and violet foliage that he feels briefly nostalgic for the Black Shroud -- but not safe. They have one Scion left to meet. This forest may be flush with life and greenery, but it is equally packed with creatures hungry for any prey sloppy enough to wander into reach.<br/>
<br/>
And Y'shtola -- not the Lightwarden, nor even the Ascian at Fray's side -- is the most dangerous thing in it.<br/>
<br/>
The group wanders their way through Fort Gohn, picking at the decaying remains of the settlement, and then take a slow course east. No one interrupts them. There are occasional patrols in the distance, skulking hunters with bows -- but little in the way of true threats. Creatures rustle out of their path, occasionally disturbing Urianger's patient instructions on the cultural customs of the Night's Blessed. Fray keeps his hand close to his sword, and watches Emet-Selch watch them.<br/>
<br/>
The suspicions of the guards outside of Slitherbough are enough to banish the Ascian at last -- likely a convenient pretense, but Fray is glad for the man's departure either way -- and then, it is finally time to face Master Matoya.<br/>
<br/>
He knows better than to appear too nervous; as the Warrior, Fray should be glad to find another one of the Scions alive and whole. But when they finally call Y'shtola out, Fray stands back, allowing her to work through their reunion at her own pace. Her vision is more than enough cause for him to be leery -- her intuition, even more so. Fray may claim the face of the Warrior of Light, but he cannot lie about his aether.<br/>
<br/>
When his turn comes to greet her, moving down the line after she introduces herself to Miniflia, Y'shtola frowns sharply at him, her head tilting in the same way that Fray has begun to expect from anyone with a drop of magickal ability -- but at last she nods, as if in satisfaction that, on the side between two forces, Fray is at least not friends with the Light.<br/>
<br/>
"'Tis good to see that you have made the crossing, though I regret the means of it," she acknowledges, and waves them all to follow as she ushers them towards a cave which must contain her own chambers. <br/>
<br/>
"We have much to catch up on," Thancred agrees heavily, and inwardly, Fray sighs, preparing himself to recite the story <em>yet again</em>.<br/>
<br/>
As expected, Y'shtola seems less than pleased to hear that their Warrior might have parceled away his own aether, though she accepts the explanation for what it is. Ever-practical, she is also the first, unfortunately, to point out the logistics of the matter. "Caution would serve us well in this regard, if your blessing is stretched across so great a distance," she reasons. "It may be that Hydaelyn has gifted Titania as well -- but I would not chance it on whimsical experimentation. We must assume that the influence of yours is halved for the time being, and act accordingly."<br/>
<br/>
"Indeed, we risk dispersing the Light once more, should the Lightwardens' potency overcometh our defenses," Urianger interjects, not wasting the opportunity to continue pressing his opinion. "The Exarch agreeth that conserving the Light within those with extensive experience in the blessing would be the wisest course."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, <em>does</em> he?"<br/>
<br/>
Given the respite of Y'shtola's suspicion, Fray gladly watches the two Scions spar, exiting himself gradually from the conversation through the honorable method of backing away slowly while no one is watching. There is no need for him to defend himself if Y'shtola is more than willing to go another round on his behalf. More importantly, it is well past time for such mundane matters as dinner and a good wash of his face -- shaving be damned -- and it is by these excuses that he manages to scrape out of the conversation, and plead the need to aid Slitherbough with minor chores in exchange for hospitality. <br/>
<br/>
The settlement itself is -- by all accounts -- a place which Fray expects to hate immediately. Any village that spouts off words of peace and community is suspect. It is strange to watch people pray <em>to</em> the darkness for once, giving it their love and reverence in a way which Fray has never dealt with before. The water that Runar had poured over him for purification had been equally odd in its refreshment, like an aloe salve soothing away the perpetual sting of the Light. Yet, the people around him seem genuine in their humility, and Fray finds his hand drifting away from his sword as he watches them go about their work. <br/>
<br/>
It is pleasant here, even he must admit. Titania would have been fond of this place. There is a certain tranquility, a simplicity which lacks the politics and machinations of larger cities, and Fray lets himself imagine it: the Warrior wandering through the gardens and shadowed caves, burdened by no other demands save that of weeding the vegetables or harvesting plants for dyes.<br/>
<br/>
He is not spared for long, however. After dinner, Fray glances up to see Y'shtola approaching him directly, navigating around the cooking fires with no attempt at concealment.<br/>
<br/>
"My thanks again for your aid in finding Toddia's heartstone," she remarks when she arrives, folding her arms assessingly. "Urianger has told me the rest. How are you enduring it?"<br/>
<br/>
Fray blinks up at her, confused by how she can tell how much he misses Titania -- and then realizes that she means simply the journey to the First itself, along with what the Scions believe to be the truth of his condition. "As needed. It feels... strange," he admits, surprised at his own impulse to even say that much. His mind has felt so barren ever since leaving Il Mheg; Fray has not thought himself the talkative sort before, but in the seclusion of Slitherbough, the quiet pushes him forward, as if the lack of honest conversation has left him deficient in some unexpected, nutritional way, not unlike a dearth of fruit in his diet. "The Light above is worse. I did not think to ever sympathize with an Ascian, but our guest does have a point -- 'tis a blistering force worse than even Ifrit's bowels. I'd rather wash myself in hot marlboro vomit."<br/>
<br/>
Y'shtola's eyebrow twitches in amusement at the force of his description. "Do you think you will be able to fight against the Warden here, once we uncover their lair?"<br/>
<br/>
"I <em>have</em> to, don't I?" he points out. "Else we throw a child of less than fifteen summers into its maw, and wash our hands of the blame."<br/>
<br/>
Far from repulse her, Fray's bluntness earns him a brief, unexpected smile. Y'shtola ducks her head in a rueful nod. "Such common sense is long overdue here. When I heard how long -- and how <em>celebrated </em>-- the tradition was of sacrificing the Oracles before they had time to come into their full strength, I could not believe that the First had lasted even this long. We know not all the pieces arrayed against us, but I will admit, I am glad for you being here."<br/>
<br/>
It is Fray's turn to smirk, finding himself well in agreement. "Should I assume you don't plan to interrogate me as well, then, in fear that I've lost my reason?"<br/>
<br/>
True to form, Y'shtola does not offer false denials too readily; she gauges her own words and him with it, comfortable with the act of silence as aggression. "Let us retire somewhere quieter, first," she eventually invites, scooping up one of the kettles which is simmering over the fire, bubbling with hot water. "Such discussions are best performed over a cup of tea, I've learned."<br/>
<br/>
The discretion is worth it; whatever questions Y'shtola has in mind cannot be easy ones. Fray follows her willingly, ducking around the other quiet conversations still unfolding in the peace of the evening. <br/>
<br/>
Her chambers are an apocalypse of literature. They do not seem emptier with the rest of the Scions absent; the riddles of history fill in the space, pregnant with ciphers on every scroll and page. They remind him, faintly, of another cave, another Matoya -- as if Y'shtola is, like him, doing her best to live up to another's legacy in more than name alone. The majority of her books are piled in a corner of the room, but are no less haphazard, organized in a filing system only she likely comprehends. Others are squirreled away in more modest stacks, as if hoping to escape notice through strategic use of the shadows. At the back of the room is another door -- likely to separate out her sleeping quarters, which tells Fray that she must take audiences regularly here in this chamber, with its tables and rough chairs and secrets.<br/>
<br/>
Y'shtola digs out a rag to insulate the kettle as she sets it on the nearest table, and then absently places two tins of leaves for Fray to select from, one brown and one green. He stares at the decision with dim hopelessness. It's impossible to remember how strong the Warrior used to prefer their tea, let alone a preference in leaf; he has no idea what Y'shtola recalls either, or if there's even a right answer to it all. <br/>
<br/>
He gives up and pinches in a thick handful of the darker leaves into his cup, resigning himself to either a brew too weak, or utterly gut-wrenching.<br/>
<br/>
Only after both cups have finished simmering does Y'shtola strain them out, and hand Fray's tea back neatly to him. "Urianger's explanation was basic enough, though I mislike how veiled he is about his displeasure. For my part, I assumed you took inspiration -- or at least methodology -- from Hraesvelgr, as you had once carried his power and protection both by accepting his eye. Though I am glad you did not parrot the same tactic down to the letter," she adds tartly, handing him his earthenware mug. "Else you might be borrowing Thancred's patch."<br/>
<br/>
The ease with which Y'shtola's pragmatism jumps over any number of protests that had bogged down others is astounding; Fray blinks at it, impressed by how neatly her explanation makes sense. If he'd had her assistance at the start, then the Scions might have never questioned the ruse to begin with. "I'm surprised you're so accepting of what's happened."<br/>
<br/>
Dried plants rustle as Y'shtola pushes aside their braided clumps, clearing a spot on the nearest table for her to lean against. "I'm a disembodied spirit, am I not?" Shrugging with a dramatic flourish of her sleeves, the woman holds up her hands in display, jabbing one finger pointedly into the center of her palm. "The very form I wear is but aether-wrought artifice, conjured by a mind which expects a body to inhabit. If not for my will, I would have no flesh at all. On what grounds do <em>I</em> have to criticize for the repurposing of one's soul?"<br/>
<br/>
She exhales then, and sobers from her moment of jest. "No. However, this does not solve the crux of the present moment. The tilt of your aether is assuredly towards an Astral polarity, which might either afford you resistance to the Light -- or <em>worsen </em>the effects of the Lightwardens' aether upon you. And, after hearing how markedly Il Mheg seems to have affected your well-being in other ways, I feel I have sufficient reason to question the options remaining to us."<br/>
<br/>
Warned by her tone, Fray straightens up -- realizing only too late that to react with such clear tension only betrays him further. "I have fought without the full potency of Hydaelyn's blessing before," he reminds her, recalling dim memories half-passed along from the Warrior: that of Midgardsormr's interference, and of exhausted crystals being recharged, one by one. "We must work with what we have, even if it is less than desirable."<br/>
<br/>
Y'shtola watches each of his motions, leaning back against the table while she folds her arms, her milky-white eyes evaluating far more about him than he knows he would like to admit. "It does not surprise me that you would extend your own protection to another, should the cause require it -- but leaving the Light in Il Mheg places Titania at prolonged risk, and <em>that </em>is not a matter I think you would willingly allow." Shrewdly, she considers him, eyes narrowing as calculations run in well-oiled mastery within her mind. "Is it possible that you <em>cannot </em>retake that Light from them safely, and so you must leave that portion of your aether in place to shield them?"<br/>
<br/>
Like a click of a gamepiece sliding forward with lethal grace to suddenly place him in check, Fray finds his blood go cold. Already, he is outmatched. Allowing such a misunderstanding would only invite the Scions to turn their wits upon finding a solution -- one which would drive them to investigate Titania, and the nature of the aether between them. But rejecting Y'shtola would only invite her to focus her scrutiny upon Fray himself, digging into explanations that he already knows he does not have the reasoning to defend.<br/>
<br/>
Winning her over halfway is the only possible means he can think of. Like it or not, Fray must admit to a partial defeat, and recover what he can from the rubble.<br/>
<br/>
He must give her enough of the truth, or else she may see it all as lies. <br/>
<br/>
"No. It is naught so insidious." He takes a deep breath, hoping that his reasoning has not already foundered and exposed itself as false. So far, the Scions have believed that the blessing of Light and the Lightwardens' aether to be linked by convenience, the latter naturally requiring the former. None of them have cause yet to know that the blessing belongs to Titania themself, and can never be removed. <br/>
<br/>
"Titania... did not expect to become King," he manages. That much is reasonable enough. "They are very young for a pixie, and they need time to adjust to their new role. Time -- and support. Yet, if I had said as much to the rest of the Scions, they would have almost certainly sought to provide their <em>own </em>help regardless of the consequences, imagining it would benefit both Titania and myself. Let Il Mheg stay out of these affairs." It is as close to a plea as he dares, not without exposing his allegiance further. "If needed, I will take the Light from them myself. Simply... give them a chance to become themselves first."<br/>
<br/>
Each sentence is like another piece of armor stripped from him while an enemy watches, marking the best moment to leap for his throat. Pinned beneath Y'shtola's focus, he cannot evade as easily as with Alphinaud's easy willingness to believe him, Alisaie's desire to bypass the petty details and cut her way through any dilemma. He must be at his best, or risk losing both himself and his King.<br/>
<br/>
Y'shtola is silent for long enough that he wonders if he has laid it all bare in as many words, unrolling both his fate and Titania's upon the table for dissection. Her fingers drum idly on the table behind her, tapping out some rhythm only she can parse.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, she remarks, with the deliberate carelessness of a scorpion, "I recognize your aether from our days on the Source, you know."<br/>
<br/>
It is such a plain observation that it becomes cryptic by default, like commenting on the dampness of the ocean. Startled, Fray glances up to her, and catches his breath with a jolt. There is no hostility on her face: only an uncanny focus, the same as Feo Ul, and Fray suddenly wonders if she can see him. <em>Him</em>, not simply the aether of the Warrior's body. If she <em>knows </em>-- if she has <em>always</em> known, has <em>always </em>seen the spectres gathered around the Warrior ever since coming back from the Lifestream with her eyes mazed and glossy.<br/>
<br/>
But even as he gathers himself for the worst, Y'shtola deliberately lifts her cup and takes an indifferent sip of her tea. "The Warrior has always had a perpetual habit of making unexpected decisions, particularly when it comes to aiding others. And since I can clearly acknowledge that you <em>are </em>the Warrior of Light," she emphasizes, "there is little worth in questioning your values at this stage, and we waste time criticizing the past when <em>none </em>of us were there to advise otherwise. However, your pain <em>is</em> a matter that none of us would turn a blind eye to either. Can you give a single reason as to why we should?"<br/>
<br/>
Taken off-balance a second time in as many moments, Fray hauls his thoughts carefully together, refusing to be baited into a hasty answer. Y'shtola's conclusions have whisked him onto a different battlefield altogether -- but such a reprieve does not mean he is <em>safe</em>. <br/>
<br/>
Yet when he tries to summon the wit to continue, a sudden flood of weariness bursts against him, dull and draining -- as if managing the force of all his other emotions has been so exhausting that a simple invitation to let his guard down is enough to break him. He knows better than to trust Y'shtola. There is no need to trust <em>anyone</em>. Even if he had gone mad enough to <em>want</em> to, Fray cannot imagine that they would tolerate his nature after it is revealed -- let alone the truth.<br/>
<br/>
He sets aside his cup on the table, roughly enough that the tea slaps against the rim and dampens his skin, and braces his forehead against his fingers. This is the <em>worst </em>place for him to be showing weakness. If he had even <em>Myste's</em> glibness, feeding him pretty words -- but no. Fray has only himself, rough and brusque, and he already knows it will not be enough.<br/>
<br/>
"It is of no importance," he insists, knowing the uselessness of his own excuse. "It is a personal matter."<br/>
<br/>
The deflection has barely any strength to it. Underneath the relentless patience of Y'shtola's gaze, Fray winces, feeling the regret of it pinch his eyes. <br/>
<br/>
Finally, she utters an unexpected question. "'Tis said that pixies are born from the souls of fallen children." The words themselves are grim, but her speech is purposefully soft. "Souls which are given new forms through aether -- <em>your </em>aether. Were you unable to save the life from whence Titania came?"<br/>
<br/>
There is it. <em>That </em>is all Fray needs to prevent the Scions forever from digging deeper into his story. It will take no imagination to conjure up some sad, soppy tale of a child who wandered too close to the castle during the fighting, or who had died to eaters in Amh Araeng. Some pathetic, weepy saga where the Warrior of Light had missed blocking a fatal strike, and then some fragile innocent had bled away in their arms, begging for their failed savior to live on even as the life had faded from their tear-filled eyes.<br/>
<br/>
But even as Fray opens his mouth, he finds the lie sticking in place -- as if to say the words, even in a partial half-deception, is to finalize the Warrior's death as a mortal hyur. To accept that Fray <em>had </em>been unable to do anything, that he <em>had</em> been incapable of saving the Warrior otherwise, unable to rescue them from their own heroics no matter how much their soul had continued to buckle under the pressure. That stripping them of their former life had been the only way to repair the horrors that the Warrior had been thrust into, again and again -- and even then, Fray had had to use another's power. He had been helpless on his own.<br/>
<br/>
Here, in this squalid cluster of mildew-ridden caves, Fray will have to finally speak aloud the words that will make it all real: the only mortal survivor of a tragedy which no one will ever acknowledge, even if they knew.<br/>
<br/>
He only realizes how long he has been struggling, silent, staring blindly at the floor as he grimaces around the words he cannot dislodge from his throat, when Y'shtola reaches over carefully and picks his cup off the table. Steam trickles up in coils from the water as she fills it back up to the brim. She presses it towards his hands, and Fray finds himself accepting numbly, taking a sparse sip to try and thaw his voice.<br/>
<br/>
"I tried... everything." He doesn't sound like himself when he finally speaks. He doesn't sound like the Warrior either. What remains is a ragged, grating stranger, stripped of both armor and sword, orphaned from their home. "I <em>tried</em>. Every argument, every plea. There was no option left, save to offer myself."<br/>
<br/>
Her verdict is steady. "Then you have done enough." <br/>
<br/>
He does not need Y'shtola's sympathy. He does <em>not </em>need her permission, her acceptance, her <em>ignorance </em>-- but Fray finds himself grateful anyway, enough that he closes his eyes briefly and thanks the darkness in gratitude, as if he were a Night's Blessed himself.<br/>
<br/>
"Titania has taken on more than their share of suffering." The acknowledgement tastes harsh in his mouth, even as he accepts the necessity of sharing that much. "Let us solve the world's problems ourselves from now on, and allow no other casualties."<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The route through the Qitana Ravel is a hectic one. As the only two members of their group wearing more than a few flimsy pieces of cloth, Fray and Thancred split the defense between them, with the latter falling back to guard the path behind. <br/>
<br/>
Fray takes the fore, and even though the pace he sets is aggressive, the traps of the Ravel slow them with each twist. In this, at least, he is familiar: the world being reduced to nothing save threats and spite, where the only thing Fray needs to account for is how to destroy them.<br/>
<br/>
Unlike other martial disciplines, Fray does not bother to still his mind in order to fight. He allows each moment to bloat with emotions which threaten to explode out of control -- bitterness turning to bile, rage welling up in a howl -- and then he <em>twists</em> each one into pure determination, transforming every pain into purpose as he uses the strength of his own darkness to wrench raw aether from his bones. He whirls constantly back and forth as each new threat bursts towards them, making himself dizzy with the effort as he catches stone vessels lunging towards them: bulky, blocky things that slam their bodies down in hopes of simply crushing the intruders into pulp. Flashes of the Scions intrude on the corners of his vision. Y'shtola's angry, alarmed cries snap out as she is forced to abandon her ley lines yet again mid-spell. Urianger's hands deftly flip through his cards, weaving strategies and tactics into every part of his healing.<br/>
<br/>
But the abyss obeys him. Always before, Fray would have to shout at the Warrior each step of the way to accept its power, urging the reservoir of their emotions and aether forward. No longer. The darkness follows Fray as naturally as breathing; there is no barrier between him and his convictions, and he does not need to waste time justifying why he feels the need to fight. Aether floods from each strike, building in waves of shuddering intensity before he sends it lashing it out towards his enemies, eager to draw them down into a morass of pain with him.<br/>
<br/>
He has no fear of holding back here, not anymore. His greatsword whistles in broad arcs as the beasts flood towards him, drawn by his taunting. Ichor pours down his blade; he spatters it across the cavern walls with wide swings, aether clawing red gashes in the air as he paints his will across the battlefield. Serpents uncoil from the darkened tunnels, bats shrieking futilely towards them -- only to find Fray there instead, standing between their fangs and the Scions, making himself into the wall which the world crashes and breaks upon.<br/>
<br/>
The Scions are not his friends, even if they imagine themselves to be. They are not his <em>companions</em>. But they are <em>his</em> regardless, to keep safe against the eaters and any other threats which approach. Minfilia, bound to the title of Oracle since birth, imprisoned by yet another form of Hydaelyn's blessing. Y'shtola, willing to lie on Fray's behalf, providing half-truths for his shield. Urianger and Thancred, even the absent twins -- they are Titania's former allies and Fray's current soldiers-in-arms, and between those two conditions, no other creature is allowed to stake its claim. <br/>
<br/>
Even after they fight free into the clear skies of the Rak'tika Falls, there is no time to rest. The tangled paths are infested with Sin Eaters. The beasts are perpetually one step ahead of them, springing down from the trees and knocking through walls, ambushing them from every direction so that Fray cannot cover them all. <br/>
<br/>
He throws his body between a pair of canine eaters as they charge towards Urianger, their teeth dripping milky ropes of aether instead of saliva. Without any subtlety, Fray twists and catches the belly of one against his forearm, flinging it off-course even as its feet scrabble against his armor. It writhes, twisting around to sink its teeth into his shoulder, and Fray hears a gasp behind him as his blood spatters hot across Urianger's clothes. <br/>
<br/>
The pain is his. The triumph is <em>his</em>, as each Sin Eater dies on his blade and Fray yanks aether in jagged strings from out of his own veins, orchestrated by the passions which he fans out like a gambler's cards: spite, fury, mockery, malice. He laughs through each one, not caring how bloodthirsty he might appear. The Scions huddle behind him all the same, trusting in his sword's protection. <br/>
<br/>
He gives them ample cause for faith. The earth is salted with his rage; nothing is allowed to cross it without his anger stinging its flesh. Another eater swings down from the trees, and his sword is already there to deflect it away from Y'shtola's crackling spells. The shriek of its teeth against his gauntlet is like a scream, and he grins even as a fang punctures the metal, driving through the bones of his hand.<br/>
<br/>
It is a mad rush up and down the overgrown pathways, Urianger's magicks barely able to keep up with each incoming wound. Humidity smothers them all. The natural smells of the forest are thick around them: mildewing leaves, stagnant water, moss everywhere. Mud makes the pathways treacherous, enough that half the trip is spent slipping on stones -- until finally, when Fray stumbles onto a narrow platform and stares at the three-headed beast slobbering angrily at them from the other side, all he can think is, <em>thank the Twelve, it certainly </em><b><em>took</em></b><em> long enough.</em><br/>
<br/>
He dives at it before it can strike first, hearing the Scions chase along behind him, back and forth across the narrow platform  -- and then it is done, Eros collapsing in a strangled, three-fold howl, and Fray watches the Lightwarden dissolve into curls of white fire.<br/>
<br/>
Fear blossoms suddenly inside him as the Light gathers itself and begins to arrow towards his body, hungry for a new vessel. This is the first Warden he has slain on his own. If he does not have enough of the blessing to protect him -- if he is merely a discarded remnant after giving too much of his life to another -- then Fray will not be able to survive. His first Lightwarden, and he will have already failed; the Scions will almost certainly bully their way back to Titania's door, who would be that much weakened for how Fray has wasted their efforts.<br/>
<br/>
If there is to be a moment of truth, it will be here and now, where the Light may expose him as little more than a scrap of shade to be blown away like dust.<br/>
<br/>
Yet the Light balls itself up into a pearl of malice and stays there, miraculously, sliding into his soul as Fray gasps around the pain of its intrusion.<br/>
<br/>
It burns far worse than he expected. The pain this time is nothing like the first shivers that he had felt through the Warrior when Philia had been killed. That initial touch of Light had been a struggle, but it had been manageable enough at the time. Swallowing Eros's aether is like being forced to grasp a pot on a hot stove with no towel to pad his hands, gripping the metal in both palms while the water within boils out and scalds him. <br/>
<br/>
It brews within him like an angry storm, and yet, it is Fray's to own, safely contained for the moment -- a poor replacement for the other soul that should be beside him, but which he holds onto no less fiercely.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>After they return to Slitherbough, no one speaks of the need to move on quickly. Eulmore has been repelled for the time being; the cost for the reprieve has been calculated in blood. Fanow and Slitherbough both are still reassembling their ragged defenses, tending to the wounded and hunting out stray Eulmoran soldiers who had not managed to join the main force's retreat. Many of the Night's Blessed are still healing from the poisons of the Children of the Everlasting Dark, Runar included. <br/>
<br/>
Fray wastes no time in announcing his intentions of staying put long enough to ensure that Eulmore is gone, and Y'shtola -- though she does not say as much -- looks grateful as she turns her attention to her adopted people. <br/>
<br/>
He can give her that time, Fray figures. Y'shtola had allowed him an unexpected reprieve, her logic granting him room to protect the person he cares for; he can afford her the same. After all, a second trip through the raw energies of the Lifestream cannot have been easy on her, either.<br/>
<br/>
He uses the excuse of tasks around the village as reason to head out on his own, rather than linger and let people needle him with questions -- or, worse, study how he is handling the aether of the Warden this time. After the Qitana Ravel, his armor is in ruins; he hands it reluctantly off to the crafters of the Night's Blessed, shrugging on a spare set for protection in the meantime. After scribbling down the chore list on a spare scrap of paper, Fray scans it with a sigh as he realizes that this <em>exact</em> sort of errand list -- ferrying forgotten possessions, harvesting bark from trees, and finding an unhinged disciple who is clearly under the influence while babbling about snakes -- is what he used to criticize Titania about, so many times before. <br/>
<br/>
In solitude, he drifts through the forest, trying to pay attention to the rustling noises of animals around him, and instead finds himself listening for something else. He and the Warrior of Light had walked countless times together through endless wildernesses on the Source, as the Warrior had puzzled over ale-stained maps and shoddy directions, and Fray had growled in the background about wasting time. Now, there is only his own voice to keep him company. There is only his sword seeking out targets, slaughtering his hunt marks and errands with equal focus.<br/>
<br/>
Here, there is only death and the dead and Fray.<br/>
<br/>
He is so tired. It does not matter that there are rooms waiting for him in the Crystarium; their presence does not lure him back any faster. Even if he returns there, there will be no comfort. It is <em>Titania's</em> soul that he wants to immerse himself in, to go back and sink into their warmth and hear their rambling thoughts, their constant stream of observations that never ended up being voiced aloud. Their steady presence around him, never wavering, so that Fray <em>knew </em>that whenever he opened his eyes, they would still be there.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Come back to me</em>, he hears again in their voice, an invitation he dares not dwell on.<br/>
<br/>
But every time Fray reaches into the darkness between them, seeking out the flame of Titania's spirit, he cannot find it. The abyss is a wasteland of endless desolation, as numb and blank as the Empty. Only the thin tug of Titania's life upon his remains to prove that they are still alive at all.<br/>
<br/>
He does not know exactly when the exhaustion of it all manages to overpower the little stamina remaining to him, dragging his sword down along with his eyes. He has no interest in the errands themselves -- if he wants variety, there is always Fanow, which has far less reluctance to deal with outsiders when those very strangers are hunting deer meat and stuffing birds into sacks on their behalf. After Slitherbough and Fanow, he can move on to Lakeland. There will be other people tugging on his arm in the Crystarium, begging and wheedling for him to work for a handful of gil and used clothing. After that, there is Kholusia. Kugane. Mor Dhona. All of Eorzea. The First. Every shard they drag him to next. <br/>
<br/>
Fray can endure pain; it is a simple thing on its own. This weariness is another matter entirely. <br/>
<br/>
He gets as far as the northern curve of Lake Tusi Mek'ta before his waning motivation gives out, leaving him staring dully at the clouded waters. Liquid laps at the very toes of his boots, nibbling at the seams. His reflection is a murky thing, distorted further by the weeds and slime. <br/>
<br/>
He holds his silence carefully. If he does not move -- does not speak, react, show anything upon his face -- he can almost pretend that it is Titania watching him from out of the waters, and they are together again.<br/>
<br/>
Fate itself ruins the attempt for him. One ripple and then another shatters the image; a few lone raindrops patter down through the leaves, joined by more in a steady cascade, until the sky gives up all pretense of being tame and splits open in an afternoon thunderstorm.<br/>
<br/>
Thankfully, the trees nearby are broad enough that Fray can find a dry enough spot beneath their cover, finding a crude hollow formed from several trunks that had grown together over the years, each fighting for the same patch of sunlight. The nearby hoarmites have skittered away, hunkering down in their nests. The world is draped in silver curtains of water. Alone, Fray sits and watches the fury of the storm flood past, remembering how he would sit together with the Warrior on days like this, and watch them cup their glove protectively over beetles and ants to safeguard them from the rain.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Why waste your time?</em> Fray had asked each time, and had always received a soft wave of affection back: for him, for the insects, for everything living that was just struggling to survive.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Because if I can at least manage to shield a beetle</em>, had been the inevitable reply, <em>then at least I can say I've helped </em><b><em>something</em></b><em> in this world, in the end.</em><br/>
<br/>
Only silence answers Fray now.<br/>
<br/>
It's a desolate place for his thoughts to float in, so much that when Fray sees the gleam of Ardbert's light nearby, he jerks his head around to track its approach. Before, he loathed such interruptions; now he craves the company. <br/>
<br/>
Either way, the fight will be a welcome one. <br/>
<br/>
"Shut up," Fray tells the man, once the ghost is in speaking distance. <br/>
<br/>
An expression of intense affront crosses Ardbert's features, though he does visibly pause, starting and restarting whatever greeting he had originally intended to say. "What are you <em>doing </em>out here anyhow? Slitherbough's malms away."<br/>
<br/>
"Contemplating the ruins of this misbegotten civilization, and thinking up more ways to piss Ascians off." It's nice to talk freely, Fray decides, particularly with people he doesn't care about. The act of cursing at the air reminds him of when he had mocked the Warrior for the exact same thing. Now <em>he </em>is the one resembling a madman, curled up in the woods and snarling at figments. "You're certainly giving me a few ideas in this regard."<br/>
<br/>
But rather than react to the jab, Ardbert only strides closer, crossing through the mud and swampland until he's staring down at Fray, not even paying attention to how a tree root is sticking through his boot. "You're not looking well." <br/>
<br/>
Channeling the force of Fray's annoyance into aether won't solve anything; he's still tempted to try. Instead, he flicks up a glare towards the shade. "Why are <em>you</em> here? Shouldn't you be haunting Titania?" he asks back, bitterly. <br/>
<br/>
"I could ask you the same thing. You're clearly not the Warrior from the Source that I remember. And yet you <em>are</em>, aren't you?" It's Ardbert's turn to squint at him now, as if Fray is doomed to have nothing but uncertainty from everyone he meets: a new curse laid on him, where he is forced to introduce himself eternally and provide a documented history in the bargain. "What's happening to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I ate a Lightwarden." It's the simplest explanation, and Fray has no need for tact when it comes to fellow ghosts. "It's not going down well."<br/>
<br/>
"But you've done it before -- " <br/>
<br/>
"<em>Titania</em> did." There is no danger of Ardbert exposing the truth -- not when the shade has made it clear that he has very little in the way of other company. "Hydaelyn apparently never expected Her Warrior's darkside to take up the quest in their stead."<br/>
<br/>
To his credit, Ardbert seems to adjust to the news far faster than Fray would expect from a man who had been so readily fooled by Ascians. Instead, he makes a thoughtful nod and then ducks into the hollow, taking a seat directly beside Fray, who does not bother to move his legs to make room. They have both been spirits, after all; there are different boundaries of personal space for their kind. "But there are two more Lightwardens to go -- making a total of three for your side, two for theirs. If this is how you react to only one, then you won't stand a chance for the rest. You'll need to ask Titania for help again before this is over."<br/>
<br/>
"And why would I force them to carry any more of this?" Fray fights back a surge of weary annoyance; <em>everyone</em> has only the same basic, impossible argument at hand, it seems. Take the Light back from Titania, or have Titania take <em>him </em>back instead. "If I could shoulder their portion of Light, I <em>would</em>, if only to get everyone <em>else</em> on this godsdamned shard to <em>stop complaining</em> about it." <br/>
<br/>
He goes silent, expecting Ardbert to run through the remainder of the pointless diatribes which everyone else is so fond of -- but, strangely, the shade only continues to study him with a frown, as if being disembodied has stripped him of even the memory of having blood to boil in anger. <br/>
<br/>
Lacking anything else to lash out about, Fray finds himself uneasily tacking on more, filling up the lull with all the words which have been festering within him since the Ravel. "Not as if it matters now. I suspect that even if I did, the full blessing still wouldn't be enough in my current condition -- and there is no time to let myself heal naturally, without knowing how long that might take." He stares at the weave of branches overhead, eyes tracing the cage of leaves speckled against the sky, rippling with each raindrop that strikes them. "The Exarch is particularly insistent that I should, and that <em>alone </em>makes me want to deny him. If we had not changed places in Il Mheg, then he would be convincing the <em>Warrior </em>in my stead -- and if that course of action turns out to be one where they would have been endangered, then I want as much strength as possible for when I ram my sword into the Exarch's bejeweled stomach."<br/>
<br/>
Ardbert looks neither impressed nor deterred by the threat; a byproduct of being dead, Fray assumes. Instead, the ghost rallies on the worst point imaginable. "You shouldn't have done it. Neither one of you, however it happened." Pressing his lips firmly together, Ardbert shakes his head again as he, too, finally joins the side of protest. "I understand that you cannot take on the Light. But that is exactly why the Warrior -- <em>Titania </em>-- risks everything by abandoning the effort halfway. What good can it do to indulge Il Mheg when <em>all</em> of Norvrandt remains in jeopardy? With all that's at stake here on the First <em>and</em> the Source, you shouldn't have <em>allowed </em>it."<br/>
<br/>
Fray stares. "Why? Because for the first time in their godsforsaken life since getting dragged into the Scions, the Warrior is actually <em>happy</em>? Because they're surrounded by people who love them and treasure them, and would lay down their lives first before their King would <em>ever </em>come to harm, and who ask nothing back save that they're cared for equally in return? Because -- as Titania -- the Warrior can no longer be used as a <em>puppet?</em> Are <em>those</em> the reasons you would condemn me with?"<br/>
<br/>
Pushing himself to his feet, Fray gathers up his sword, uncaring of the rain still thundering down around them. The conversation has gone on long enough; he has all the simmering rage he needs. "They are magnificent as Titania. If you cannot see that, then you do not deserve them -- you deserve <em>me</em>, and <em>that </em>is why you are here: because we are both cynical, bitter bastards, and I am <em>more </em>than happy to have you watch the end of the world at my side instead of theirs."</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He means the words. In willpower alone -- backed by spite, by anger, all matters of a darker heart -- Fray <em>knows </em>he has uttered nothing truer. He would sooner die than deny them.<br/>
<br/>
But as he continues to move through the Greatwood, Fray is forced into another, colder recognition, one that ignores every promise he has made to both Titania and himself. Darkness alone will not sustain him. Not when he is having to pretend to be the Warrior, to be a <em>hero </em>to these people, and not give them cause to discard his play-acting and seek out Titania instead. Only half the Scions are willing to turn a blind eye so far. He must do well enough to pass the suspicions of the rest, or else they will go running to Il Mheg and demand for their meek, tame Warrior to be returned to them, and then all of Fray's efforts will be for naught.<br/>
<br/>
In one aspect, at least, he is lucky: the memory that all of the Scions cling to is of the Warrior of Light. Even despite his erratic behavior, they, too, wish to frantically trust that he remains their friend -- that he has not been possessed by an Ascian or enthralled by Zodiark, turned traitor in a world where they must count on him to be able to reverse the tide of this shard's destruction. They want to believe in him with nearly the same degree of desperation that Fray wishes to <em>be </em>believed. Any excuse will suffice.<br/>
<br/>
If nothing else, they can meet on common ground with that.<br/>
<br/>
On their final night in Rak'tika, as the Scions prepare to return at last towards the Crystarium and Y'shtola has finished monitoring the purge of the toxins from the Night's Blessed, Fray leaves his squalid bunk and heads into the forest. The woods are soothing with the stars returned, and all the more so now that the Light is truly gone, and not simply masked by the branches overhead.  <br/>
<br/>
Only when Fray has traveled far enough away from any sentry does he pause under the night sky, and speak a name: "Titania."<br/>
<br/>
With a burst of light, the Faerie King spins into view, caught up in a long arc as they soar overhead and then spiral back down once more, a wild autumn leaf sailing on the gusts before a storm. Against the greenery of the forest, their wings are that much brighter, radiating like crystals charged with purest aether. The cloud of their hair has been reined partially back, bound into dozens of small twists and braids like a bramble bush, tied up with living ivy instead of wire or cord. A wreath of flowers is slowly coming apart around their crown, shedding petals gaily over the forest floor.<br/>
<br/>
Already, Titania has begun to change from the last time Fray has seen them. With each new adornment from their people, they leave the trappings of mortal cities behind. Titania belongs solely in nature's embrace now -- not clad in steel and iron, a blade on their back and at their throat.<br/>
<br/>
They land before him -- but lightly, only their toes touching the grass while the rest remains suspended in the air. "And so the night returns here in equal favor." Unrushed, they glance towards the stars overhead, and then back down to him approvingly. "You are truly a champion to those in need, Fray."<br/>
<br/>
"This forest and its inhabitants can all <em>rot</em>, as far as I'm concerned." As caustic as the denial is, however, Fray can feel his tension already beginning to unwind. Titania's presence alone is a balm to his spirit, soothing the raw oozing of his nerves. "The woods are much easier to navigate without that blasted Light overhead. As much as I hate to agree with an Ascian, Emet-Selch does have a point about the sky."<br/>
<br/>
Mention of their new threat causes the Faerie King to finally descend the rest of the way. Their heels touch the ground as lightly as dandelion fluff, wings stilling. "Speaking of Ascians," they begin, with a pensive frown, "Emet-Selch came to me looking for more clues. I fashioned an illusion of Elidibus's mask and wore it while we spoke. I know he cannot have been fooled by mere appearances -- but it <em>did </em>serve to unsettle him, I hope."<br/>
<br/>
The trick of it is something that Fray can appreciate; that Titania is already improving their magickal skills is equally encouraging. He lifts an eyebrow, considering the choice of guise. "I am surprised you did not wear Lahabrea's. Or one of the others -- we've killed <em>how</em> many of their lot by now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Two, directly. Lahabrea's end came not from our hands, but Thordan's primal hunger -- though it was our battle which rendered him too weak to fight back. Igeyorhm was our account, trapped by auracite and destroyed by a blast of aether from Nidhogg's eye. Nabriales was slain from both Tupsimati and Moenbryda's life." Unfortunately, Titania does not seem half as jubilant as Fray would have liked; as they recall the list of the slain, they glance aside, unwilling to accept simple victories. "Elidibus's mark was enough to give Emet-Selch warning. The man came in search of insight. Not grief."<br/>
<br/>
"Need I remind you how much grief they have caused <em>you,</em> unasked?"<br/>
<br/>
Titania gives him a mulish look that he has no trouble recognizing, acquainted with the emotions that would often accompany the same gesture: stubbornness, a layer of disappointment, a patience for those unwilling to even <em>try</em> harboring sympathy for their enemies. "We must be better than that, Fray. For all that the Ascians believe us to be lesser creatures, we cannot allow their opinion to become justification for acting thus."<br/>
<br/>
Unimpressed, Fray only makes a deliberately exaggerated roll of his eyes -- a falsified one, for affection is warm in his chest, softening his mouth. The banter of it all is familiar, the same in both tone and outcome, even if Titania can only perceive his physical reactions in order to know that his scorn is a sham. "We'll make for very well-behaved corpses then, I suppose."<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, Titania shows no signs of misinterpreting his humor as sincere irritation. They reach out, fingers prodding his jaw as they turn his face one way and then the other, studying him with a rueful sigh. "Still haven't figured out shaving, I see."<br/>
<br/>
Temporarily immobilized, Fray tries to remember the last time he glanced at himself in a mirror, beyond washing off bloodstains. The only interest he has in his appearance is that he resembles the Warrior -- everything else is pointless. "I understand the basics. You put a sharp object by your face and let it remove the hairs. I figure I've got enough enemies who are more than willing to do the work for me, so why should I go through the extra effort?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you wish to lose an eye instead of your stubble, aye. Ask for an aesthetician the next time you are in the Crystarium. Once you learn from them, your cheeks will appreciate it." With a final poke at his jaw, Titania drifts into the air, effortlessly floating a few ilms above the ground as if gravity has already become intolerably boring. "But this is mournful enough. Tell me more of your own victories here in Rak'tika. How was the third Warden? What manner of wonders does the Greatwood hold?"<br/>
<br/>
Fray ducks around one broad wing as it swings dangerously close to him, Titania's gown sweeping over the moss as they survey the forest. "The Lightwarden this time was interesting -- some overgrown chimera. It reminded me of something else we might have fought in the past, though 'twas more dog than lion. I don't exactly remember what." If there had been any experience still lingering in the body, Fray hadn't benefitted; he'd had to run and duck and curse like the rest of the Scions, gracelessly scampering from one side of the platform to the other. "Also, I may have angered an entire nation of predatory rabbits," he admits thoughtfully. "And I am <em>immensely</em> glad that I can breathe underwater, what with all the swamp muck I've been exposed to. What about you? Is Myste still complaining? Or are the pixies more than a match for the brat?"<br/>
<br/>
"He is at peace for now, as far as I can tell. Il Mheg provides him the opportunity to seek healing for an entire nation, and the fae folk always look eagerly ahead. The pixies do not hold onto regret, which I think is a mercy for him." One by one, a dotting of fireflies begins to wink into view, floating up like lost stars. Glancing towards the lights, Titania idly extends their hand, and the insects swirl towards them, encircling their arm in a rotating spiral of luminescence. "I have felt him stirring in dreams. <em>That</em> is a place where he might find a new land to explore, a safe realm in which he may help people the way he has not been able to before."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you think it will be enough for him?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a chance to find out. But that chance may be exactly what he needs." Shaking away their living bracelet, Titania looks as if they are about to say more -- and then they tilt their head, frowning towards the tangled maze of the vast trees overhead, though there is no threat approaching that Fray can see.<br/>
<br/>
He knows enough to watch them instead, measuring their turmoil through each small narrowing of their eyes. When they wet their lips hesitantly, he waits for it, holding his tongue in peace. <br/>
<br/>
"I think I understand now more of what Feo Ul meant." As the night thickens, a cooler breeze drifts through the trees; it stirs the branches with the sound of a distant ocean, lifting the fireflies higher. The ends of Titania's hair ripple, seeking to escape their ivy braids. "When I first began to settle into being King, I thought, mayhap, of speaking to the faeries about turning some of the leafmen back, or drowning fewer travelers. But I realized the blind arrogance of that before I even asked it of them." Resolutely, they shake their head, scattering a daffodil from their hair to flutter sadly to the ground. "That's not what they need from a King. I can't force mortal rules and perspectives upon them, imagining myself to be making them <em>better</em>, that I'm improving their lives by having them fall in line with how the Crystarium or even Eorzea might live. No -- <em>I</em> am the one who should change." <br/>
<br/>
At the stark resolution in those words, Fray feels a fresh wave of uncertainty lace through his blood. "Titania. If you don't want to -- " <br/>
<br/>
"I do."<br/>
<br/>
Before his worries succeed in fully taking shape, Titania abandons the air and lets their feet sink completely back down to earth. They land beside him with precision this time, careful not to batter him with their wings. "I <em>do</em>. It isn't something to mourn, Fray." The flash of their smile is faint, but sincere. "The faeries need someone who can help them be exactly who and <em>what</em> they are, to flourish in accordance to their natures, regardless of what others may think of them. That's why they trusted the first Titania to protect them from the Sin Eaters. That's what they're hoping for in me. And it's what <em>I</em> want as well," Titania concludes, giving Fray a quick, uncertain glance, as if expecting him to disapprove -- as if they have done something <em>wrong </em>in finding something which brings them joy. <br/>
<br/>
As if they deserve it being taken away, again.<br/>
<br/>
With one restless motion, Titania rakes their fingers absently back through their hair -- a gesture that would have been far better if they still wore it short, rather than adorned by fern and gold. Their hands snarl in the coils; they dislodge their golden crown, skewing it halfway to the side. The end of it lodges in a braid, and Titania breaks off in their confession to stop and laugh at their own disarray, picking carefully around what remains of their flower wreath.<br/>
<br/>
Unable to suppress the smile that quirks the corner of his own mouth, Fray brushes their hands away so that he can fix the mess instead. He has no idea what to do about the flowers which are already coming apart from their neat garland; jamming them into the tightest whorls of ivy he can find seems about right, even though the blossoms end up sticking out at random angles, looking for all the world as if they come from a garden that has just been trampled by a buffalo. He'll hear an earful from Feo Ul later, he knows.<br/>
<br/>
But even as he finishes settling Titania's crown back in place, brushing the stray bangs back gently from their face, he finds them reaching back up again.<br/>
<br/>
Titania's hands slide against his own. Their thumbs are warm on his palms. His fingertips remain pressed against their skin; his heart has become a battering ram against his ribs, swelling so taut that it can no longer fully beat. It takes all of his strength to hold as still as he can, as if either he or they will break with a breath. <br/>
<br/>
Fearlessly, Titania meets his gaze headlong. "Being King is different than I expected, Fray. The parts I thought would be easy are the ones I must struggle to master. And that which I thought would be impossible -- those are the easiest parts." Their lips press in a flat line; they start to shake their head again, and only end up bumping their temple against his palm. "But... I <em>am</em> happy here, Fray. Are you?"<br/>
<br/>
At the question, Fray's first impulse is to pull away, just in case Titania can read the reluctance from his own bones. But to do so would be to leave them, and that is an even more intolerable thought. Giving in, he lets his hands cup against Titania's face, one thumb smoothing their cheek as if he could erase away all worries hidden there. <br/>
<br/>
"This is all I have ever wished," he tells them honestly. "For you to be able to speak with your own voice, and have it be heard. For you to have the freedom to choose your <em>own</em> path. What greater joy exists, save this?"<br/>
<br/>
Their mouth makes a brief twitch against his palm. It is enough. Fray can already imagine how difficult this conversation would have been, if it had been made with anyone the Warrior had known before. How the Scions might look at their former friend now and accuse them of changing forever, becoming someone -- some<em>thing</em> -- different and no longer the person they had once known.<br/>
<br/>
He frees one of his hands. Even though there are no others here to criticize, he cups the back of Titania's head, tugging them forward and down so that he can kiss their brow fondly.<br/>
<br/>
"You will be a wonderful King," he promises.<br/>
<br/>
They linger there under his touch, and he does not hurry to break it. Flowers perfume the air around them, seeping into Fray's clothes. Titania's lungs move in perfect time with his; he is glad for having left his armor behind, for the privilege of feeling how well their shoulders fit against his own. <br/>
<br/>
"I miss you," he says abruptly. "There are some days I feel I might go mad with it. Do you know how unbearably lonely this is, to be apart from you? To not hear you, not <em>feel</em> you within me?" His hand slides down to the back of their neck; they shift into him, tucking their face against his hair, and he gladly ignores the ivy scraping his skin. "And yet, to have the whisper of you all around me, defining each part of the body I'm in. I can see you in the mirror every sun -- but the rest of you is so far away."<br/>
<br/>
It is their turn now to straighten in alarm, even as Fray curses his own carelessness. "This is not a path to take if you are suffering, Fray." They pull back far enough to study him, the relaxation fading from their expression like the blood draining from a soldier's veins. "You shouldn't sacrifice yourself for someone else's happiness. Isn't that what you always told me not to do?"<br/>
<br/>
"On the contrary." It is a good thing that Titania has always been worse at reading him in turn; Fray makes a harsh, dismissive laugh, forcing amusement into his voice. "These worlds -- these people -- it all means <em>naught </em>to me. I protect them because you live here, but I have no interest in preserving them otherwise. I never wanted to be the Warrior for anyone <em>but</em> you. Therefore, this is no sacrifice at all."<br/>
<br/>
He can tell they are not convinced when they narrow their eyes, wings flicking in skeptical agitation. "When this is over, we will go someplace warm, as you always wanted. We will do everything you have ever wished. I promise it."<br/>
<br/>
"This is enough." He tries to order his arms to let go -- but they only slide around Titania's waist in a closer hold, ignoring all directions otherwise. "Though... I would not entirely mind if you could stay. Just a little longer, before I have to go back."<br/>
<br/>
Their soft chuckle is more welcome than he wants to admit. "Yes." Their fingers guide themselves through his hair reassuringly, running along his scalp. "For you, the answer is always <em>yes</em>, Fray."<br/>
<br/>
The Rak'tika Greatwood is too infested with life to be truly quiet -- but Titania is a warm weight in his arms, suspended in the air against him, their body a familiar heat that meets every part of him perfectly. The wings brush against his skin. Their breathing is matched to his own, deep and slow, and Fray closes his eyes, burying his face against them, and pretends that there is no other world to return to -- nothing else, save this. </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Luckily enough, the dramatics of the Scions overshadow most of Fray's worries soon enough. <br/>
<br/>
With three Lightwardens gone, and the entire wasteland of Amh Araeng left to search, it is Eulmore who escalates the conflict faster and faster, rather than take the cannier approach of allowing the Crystarium's forces to fall down into caves naturally on their own and break their necks. Lakeland is left reeling from the aftermath of the latest Sin Eater attack. Thancred's sourness over the Oracle's powers is as useful as piss in a tempest. <br/>
<br/>
And when Minfilia volunteers to let herself be erased for the good of the cause -- a familiar misery settling across her face -- Fray inwardly curses and decides he's had enough. <br/>
<br/>
There is an advantage to being a creature of darkness and low moral fiber. In Twine, while everyone else is busy hovering around uselessly as Minfilia sobs to herself -- yanked about by the demands of people still defining her by the power she inadvertently holds -- the Warrior of Light might have stood aside respectfully, noting how Urianger had already begun to take a hesitant step forward towards the girl, perhaps in over-elaborate support. <br/>
<br/>
Fray has no such pretenses of proper behavior. Ignoring how everyone else is -- by varying degrees -- attempting to appear good and tactful and respectful of both the child's space and Thancred's terminal lack of action, he strides over to the girl directly and sits down beside her, laying his greatsword to the side where it will not accidentally impale either of them in the leg.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell me one thing you love about this world," he demands, without preamble.<br/>
<br/>
Minfilia blinks up at him, eyes bleary. Her cheeks are puffed and scratched from the force of how badly she has rubbed at her face, digging sand from the desert breeze into her skin. "I'm sorry -- what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Tell me," Fray repeats, nonplussed, "<em>one</em> thing you love about this world. Forget about all the rest of this bloody <em>nonsense</em>," he adds, before she can tangle herself up in semantics of nobility and honor and self-sacrifice. He shifts his weight, hearing gravel scrape against his boots. "Is there a single thing that makes you happy about this world, whether it's from being around it, or seeing it, or simply knowing it's out there and alive?"<br/>
<br/>
Minfilia continues to stare, red-eyed, before wiping the back of her hand against her face and nose. "The... the flowers in Il Mheg, I suppose. Or anywhere, <em>any </em>flowers. I didn't get to see them where they kept me in Eulmore, save in books." She chokes down another sob, her body uncertain if she's meant to be crying still, or merely pretending she hasn't been. "When Thancred came for me, he took me first to Il Mheg to see Urianger and make certain I was all right. We were both so tired and afraid, and hiding in every shadow we could find. It didn't seem like aught but a dream -- that I'd wake up any minute and be back in my chamber in the Understory." <br/>
<br/>
Slowly, the weariness of the girl's voice shifts as she speaks, transformed by memory into a half-remembered awe. "But when we stepped into Il Mheg, <em>that</em> was when it felt as if I was seeing flowers for the first time. They were all so beautiful, beyond any fantasy that I'd let myself imagine before. Seeing them made me feel as if it was all finally <em>real</em>, that I was actually free of Eulmore at last and it wasn't just some trick or dream." She pauses, frowning slightly as she reels herself back to the present, and looks back warily towards him. "But I don't -- what does that have to do with the Lightwarden?"<br/>
<br/>
Fray laces his fingers together over a knee and stares out into the sands past Twine, considering her tale. "Let me tell you a story. I know you've heard enough of them, but bear with me," he warns. "There was a girl once who was born with a certain ability that no one else around her had. Because of that ability, she realized she could help prevent further bloodshed in a horrible war that had been going on for years and years, and which left naught but suffering behind. So she grew older, and learned how to channel another's power, and then both sides of the war ended up being more than happy to use her for their <em>own</em> goals -- until she finally sacrificed her life, under the belief that it was the best way to atone for the grief she had brought to others."<br/>
<br/>
He can see Minfilia falling prey to conclusions before he's even halfway finished -- but, to her credit, she doesn't immediately brush him aside, assuming him to be yet another person trying to dictate her own feelings to her because she hadn't the wit to figure them out for herself. By the end, she simply looks down into her lap, where her hands have tangled her skirt into a wadded mess. Her voice is already hopeless. "So, is that supposed to be how I'll turn out, then?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. <em>That</em> was Ysayle Dangoulain." Grimly, Fray stares out at the sky and its endless, glittering light. <em>These</em> are memories he has no trouble remembering; he had little else to do during the Dragonsong War, save to yell futilely at the Warrior and watch events unfold around them. Only near the end had the two of them started coming to an understanding -- and by then, it was too late. "Lady Iceheart, once thought to be Saint Shiva, channeling a Primal's power into herself and allowing herself to be naught more than a tool in service to the salvation of others. She lived in hopes of bringing peace, and then she died never being able to see it, and <em>none</em> of us -- not even Estinien, the overgrown <em>arse </em>-- wanted it. You're weighed down by the grief that Thancred carries. Do you honestly imagine that none of us would grieve for <em>you?</em>"<br/>
<br/>
At the comparison, Minfilia makes a jerking motion of her shoulders, a cross between hunching further upon herself and straightening upright. A small, sudden hiccup lurches out of her: the byproduct of a protest that comes out half-formed on the heels of a sniffle, and then she covers her mouth with both hands, fingers warding her cheeks as if afraid of what answer might come out next. <br/>
<br/>
As soon as she recovers her breath, however, the girl turns her gaze out towards the desert in mute denial, and Fray feels a sudden, riotous pang of sympathy for Y'shtola's arguments with him back in Slitherbough. <br/>
<br/>
But Y'shtola is not here either, and Fray cannot mimic her; he fumbles his way forward, wondering if he's already ruining what little progress he's made. "Most times when people end up with power," he continues, "all it takes is the right amount of guilt to get them thinking that they don't have any right to their own lives anymore. Eulmore taught you to be ashamed for simply being <em>alive</em>. Your escape came only with the help of someone else. Even the title of the Oracle is a gift that other people had to die to give you. All your life you've learned that your existence is a debt owed to others, and the only way you can repay it is by giving them your powers back. Sound about right?" <br/>
<br/>
It's clumsy, how he strings his half of the argument together. Fray can hear the repetition in it, the <em>lecturing</em>, even as he has no <em>idea </em>what else to say. He can't use his emotions to fill in the flaws of his speech, as he used to communicate with the Warrior. He can't even read Minfilia's thoughts to know if she believes him. All he can do is fling words at her like a handful of useless arrows, without even a bow to string them upon, and with likely as little effectiveness.<br/>
<br/>
Because it <em>is</em> just like talking to the Warrior. The Oracle of Light is yet another sacrifice to the world, someone who has already given themselves up for dead because they don't see how their life could be worth as much as <em>anyone</em> else's, and all Fray can do is sit and watch -- <em>again </em>-- as entire nations shake their heads gravely while someone else dies on their behalf.<br/>
<br/>
Suddenly, like a ship's sail snapping full with the wind, the clarity of Fray's anger smooths out every other thought in his mind. It does not matter if he appears to be the Warrior or not. He does not <em>care</em> if he looks like an idiot when other, more polished tongues might make a better case in fewer words. All he can see is another hero convinced that she needs to mindlessly carry around her Hydaelyn-bestowed blessing like a bag of carrots on her back, and that fact rouses a familiar recklessness that once had Fray urging the Warrior by saying, <em>yes, go ahead and charge that group of Garleans, we can </em><b><em>take </em></b><em>them.</em><br/>
<br/>
Walking over and punching Thancred in the face keeps looking better and better.<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, Minfilia finally stirs, gathering her defense against so many different points. "But look at Vauthry. He could have saved so many lives with his control over the Sin Eaters. He could have stopped this entire war long ago! Instead, all he cares about is his own pleasure. Wouldn't it be the same exact thing as him, if I only use my power for myself?"<br/>
<br/>
In answer, Fray stretches out his arm. <br/>
<br/>
With one smooth snap of motion, he grabs the nearest stone he can fit in his hand, and whips it off the edge of the cliff without bothering to aim first for safety. The missile plummets in a swift arc, smacking into an abandoned mining platform. It clangs off the metal in a series of sharp clatters -- smashing something that sounds like glass -- and then rattles down into the ravine, continuing its merry destruction unseen.<br/>
<br/>
Minfilia startles, her spine bolting straight. Fray promptly picks up another, sending it sailing off gaily to smash against the ground with a distant <em>crack</em>. <br/>
<br/>
"It's not -- <em>look</em>," he says, trying to consolidate his own arguments and immediately abandoning the attempt. "It's not a matter of extremes like that. But people want to make you <em>believe</em> it is, because complaining and begging is easier than picking up the sword themselves. Saying no once won't turn you into Vauthry. Saying it a <em>thousand </em>times won't. But with that pile of steaming chocobo shite looming over you, of course it's going to seem like the <em>only </em>moral choice you've got is to give everything up." <br/>
<br/>
The next stone Fray grabs has some real mass to it; he sends it ricocheting off the cliffs, where it promptly picks up momentum and nearly takes out a foraging goat. "But if the only way to balance the scales is to hand off your life to the people demanding it the loudest? You might as well turn around and march right back into Eulmore and put yourself in your own cell, because it's the same thing."<br/>
<br/>
"But it still has to <em>happen!</em>" Minfilia blurts at last, her hands flying off her lap to make fists against the air, torn between the argument itself and watching the destruction of the landscape in horrified fascination. "You're the Warrior of Darkness. You <em>know</em> how important it is to protect the world, and the people in it. Everyone has made so many sacrifices, and suffered so <em>much</em>. How can I ignore that if it means people will be hurt?"<br/>
<br/>
"You can't," Fray agrees blithely -- which cuts her short and leaves her gaping up at him, legs sprawled across the dirt.<br/>
<br/>
This time, the rock he throws clips off a cart rail, and snaps a decaying strut off a rooftop. "The world needs <em>an</em> Oracle. Just like it needs <em>a</em> Warrior to kill things for it. But none of those conditions specify that you <em>or</em> Minfilia Warde have to die for them, do they? That's just how Thancred sees it. But if <em>he</em> can't wrap his mind around the alternatives, it's not your responsibility to do it for him. <em>And</em>," Fray lifts his voice intentionally, pitching it to echo off the battered roofs and shacks around them, "if he's being too much of a <em>gutless coward</em> to even confirm or deny that much, then he's making you responsible for all his happiness instead, <em>isn't</em> he!"<br/>
<br/>
Back in the shade, Fray can hear the short, insulted scrape of a foot against the sand, but he doesn't turn around.<br/>
<br/>
Still too stunned to withdraw into herself a second time, Minfilia's honesty comes faster now, as if it could somehow stem the tide of such brutal bluntness. Her voice continues to rise, incited by his own. "But Thancred came and saved me from Eulmore. And then he protected me for all the years after, even when he didn't need to." Whatever anger has been buried inside her is drawing closer to the surface by Fray's demonstrations; she fidgets, fingers restlessly tangling into her sleeves, laden with restless energy that has nowhere else to go. "How can I ignore the pain he's in? He's given me everything good that I've been able to experience in this world. If I can repay that somehow, by <em>any</em> means..."<br/>
<br/>
Pausing in his casual obliteration of Twine's scenery, Fray rolls his shoulders. There's a stiffness in his muscles from carrying his greatsword's weight; all the walking has only made it worse. His fingers search around the ground, hunting for more ammunition -- but when he finally finds a suitable missile, he leans over to offer it to Minfilia instead, holding out the rock until she accepts it tentatively into her grasp. <br/>
<br/>
"If the only thing you loved in this world was Thancred's happiness," he points out, "then <em>that's</em> what you would have told me, Minfilia. And that would have been your answer right there, and we'd be done. But there's one other thing that's getting overlooked here. What does <em>Minfilia Warde</em> actually want?" <br/>
<br/>
The wince that contorts Minfilia's face is a pained one; all of her brief confidence evaporates instantly, her anger exchanged for fresh guilt. "She hasn't told me. And Thancred won't say what she told him." Clutching the rock to her chest as if it, too, is another flaw to be ashamed of, the girl ducks her head. "I'm... I'm probably not good enough to speak to directly."<br/>
<br/>
"Or she's just <em>really bloody bad</em> at talking to you right now. Most people have no swiving <em>idea</em> how to listen to the space inside them properly," Fray spits, remembering all the times he'd yelled at the Warrior while they had merrily trotted along yet another cliff towards their doom. He reins in his exasperation with a monumental effort and sighs, slicking a hand up the back of his neck as he feels a trickle of sweat start to creep down into his armor. "Thal's dripping, inflamed balls! Minfilia didn't start off as a passenger in someone else's body, she got <em>dropped</em> into it, and her only comparisons for <em>that </em>are creatures like Lahabrea -- <em>just</em> like you and Vauthry. Dying has got to look as good to her as it does to <em>you</em>. Else, your only other choice is to end up like something you <em>hate</em>, and <em>no one else</em> is offering you proof of aught else, are they?"<br/>
<br/>
He exhales sharply, and kicks free one of the stones laying half-buried in the dirt, dislodging it enough that he can lean over and free it the rest of the way. "Go on," he urges Minfilia, nodding towards the one still waiting in her hands. "Try it."<br/>
<br/>
She looks at him, and then at the edge of the dropoff, blanching slightly at the challenge. <br/>
<br/>
But then -- slow at first, and then rushing at the end -- the girl takes a running start and flings the rock off into the ravine. Even though the missile barely clears the edge, Fray observes its flight approvingly. It's clear that she knows <em>how</em> to throw things -- likely from all her knife training -- but there's no force behind it, as if Minfilia's afraid of hurting the ground, or being yelled at for making her presence known to the surrounding aldgoats.<br/>
<br/>
Still, it's a start.<br/>
<br/>
He scoops up a few more stones, gathering a whole stack of them until he builds a small mound between himself and Minfilia for her to choose from. Then he draws in a long breath, ignoring the way that memory stings at his own chest, twisting it painfully in a demand for Fray to hold his silence, lest he cut his own tongue in an attempt to speak. <br/>
<br/>
"Just remember this," he says aloud: a warning that he has given before, so many times. "If the people you seek to save would be made happy at your death, then just what is it that you're <em>really</em> saving?"<br/>
<br/>
It is too late now, for the person he truly wished to heed those words. But as Fray looks at the girl -- this Oracle of Light, this new <em>Weapon</em> of Light -- he finds himself <em>willing</em> the meaning of it to her anyway, as if she, too, shares the same language, and knows the whispers of the soul.<br/>
<br/>
They have no such bond, he knows. He cannot tell if she grasps the full reach of his despair. But Minfilia blinks after a moment, looking at him with an expression both wary and hopeful: as if Fray, too, is an Il Mheg flower of some kind, shining distantly at the end of a very long road.<br/>
<br/>
"You're not much like the stories Thancred used to tell me," she volunteers suddenly.<br/>
<br/>
"Good," he snorts. "I'd hate to hear what kind of promises he made on my behalf. There was this minstrel back on Eorzea that kept making up all these ludicrous stories about my godsdamned exploits, exaggerating everything into these impossible fights that people would actually <em>believe</em>, and then they'd expect me to actually <em>perform</em> those sorts of feats. I always wanted to go back and smash his harp over his head to get him to stop."<br/>
<br/>
Minfilia surprises him with a burst of laughter at this: not true amusement, he can tell, but a bubble of hysteria from too many emotions too close to the surface, finding their outlet however they can before they transform into a scream. "You wouldn't, would you?"<br/>
<br/>
"<em>You</em> didn't have to hear all the singing." He grimaces. "Anyroad, that's the thing they never tell you about all this. You don't have to be a good person to save the world. The only thing that matters is that the world <em>gets </em>saved. And since <em>you</em> don't want Minfilia Warde to die, and she doesn't want you to either, it seems like the only people you're accountable to is each other. Not," he adds pointedly, "<em>Thancred</em>."<br/>
<br/>
The reminder dims the girl's expression once more -- but she does not, at least, curl back away. "I'll think about it," she whispers, swallowing hard, and then stares fixedly at the ground, keeping her silence this time.<br/>
<br/>
But when Fray turns to go, he hears her voice pipe up again. "Do you... do you really think that it might be possible for both of us to live?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks back to her, allowing his anger to brew on her behalf: a hot, burgeoning rage that will keep him going for weeks by remembering the plaintive hope barely showing now on her face, and how much she clearly thinks she does not deserve it.<br/>
<br/>
"I do," he promises quietly. "I <em>know</em> it."<br/>
<br/>
He is not surprised to see the lift of Urianger's eyebrow as he rejoins the pair lurking in the nearest shadow, but the respectful incline of the elezen's head is unexpected. "Mayhap these trials thou hast weathered have brought about hithertofore unexpected boons," the man remarks, and lets his gaze slide pointedly to his partner. "For a change, 'tis refreshing to hear such confident words when Minfilia has had little in the way of such offered to her before."<br/>
<br/>
Fray gives the elezen a look back of equal weariness -- both of them conspirators in pragmatism, for once -- and then directs his ill-humor towards Thancred. "We have felled gods and dragons and entire systems of faith by now," he bites out. "You would think that having a simple conversation might be within your grasp."<br/>
<br/>
He expects Thancred's response to be far less forgiving. His knees are already braced in preparation for the punch he expects will come -- but Thancred's expression swims with uncertainty, like a kicked puppy that's trying its hardest to look like it isn't guilty of staining the rug. Rather than look aggrieved, the man keeps glancing back towards where Minfilia sits, her shoulders now unbowed as she watches the sky: brooding still, but at least no longer hunched in misery.<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you," the man says quietly. "Truly. I... would not have thought of the avenues you suggested, and I <em>should</em> have. I should have looked for another solution. Though -- have I been no better than Eulmore in my care of her? Than Ran'jit? <em>Vauthry?</em>"<br/>
<br/>
Fray gives him a narrow look. "You're Thancred Waters, Scion of the Seventh Dawn. Your valors include the liberation of nations, and making young orphans cry. Which one are <em>you</em> most pleased with?"<br/>
<br/>
He does not miss the sudden twitch of Urianger's mouth, and the swift glance away that the elezen uses to hide what is either horror or amusement. It might have been too much. Even Thancred has paled somewhat.<br/>
<br/>
"But -- "<br/>
<br/>
"If you don't start taking care of <em>both</em> your wards properly," Fray interrupts, spurred on by pure outrage at the <em>ridiculousness</em> of it all, "then I <em>will</em> break out every one of your teeth and watch over the Oracles myself. Do you hear me?"<br/>
<br/>
At the way Thancred visibly flinches back a step, there is a faint lurch of dread in Fray's stomach. He may have finally gone too far this time, breaching whatever reservoir of trust the final two Scions held -- but his anger is as hot as mulled wine in his stomach, and Fray knows he does not <em>care</em>.<br/>
<br/>
In the end, it is Thancred, thankfully, who blinks and nods in surrender, looking more than a bit dazed. "Gods, were you always this dour?" he bursts out with, his own emotions betraying how tightly they have been wound by how easily he lets them break now. "My memories are admittedly a bit hazy, we've been five years apart -- but I seem to remember you being a touch more <em>restrained</em>."<br/>
<br/>
Fray resists the urge to give himself further away. "Ishgard," he answers, shugging. "It all started in Ishgard. It had to catch up sometime."<br/>
<br/>
This explanation, thankfully, passes by unquestioned. Thancred reaches out to clap Fray on the shoulder -- pausing halfway, as if hesitant of the response, and then finally landing with a light tap. "Well, don't be afraid to ask us for help. We don't want to lose you."<br/>
<br/>
The unwitting irony of those words is enough to begin -- slowly -- dismantling Fray's temper. He lets the smirk show this time. "A bit late for that, I'd wager."<br/>
<br/>
The swirl of Urianger's clothes catches his attention as the elezen turns on his heel to depart as well, satisfied enough to resume preparations for the rest of the journey to Nabaath Areng. As he does, however, the man delivers Fray a faint smile, so sincere that Fray is forced to stop and frown, wondering if he mistook the act altogether.<br/>
<br/>
It is a strange moment of approval -- delivered to <em>Fray</em>, and not to the Warrior he pretends to be, who would never say such things so bluntly -- and it catches him short, leaving him standing in place in surprise. As Thancred drifts away next, still shaking his head ruefully, Fray is left to listen to the staccato rattle of stones being pelted off the cliff, feeling oddly accepted despite all the reasons he should not be.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Storge is harder to take than even Eros. <br/>
<br/>
Light splits out of the crumpling Warden and pours into Fray like molten lava, like the very worst dragon's venom -- except it's on the <em>inside</em>, forcing its way through his body and melting his veins into corroded streams. His stomach clenches in a hard pulse. He coughs unexpectedly, a spasm bubbling its way up his throat, and feels a wet bubble burst against his teeth.<br/>
<br/>
When he touches his mouth gingerly, wiping surreptitiously at his lips, he is relieved that the stain left behind is only colored red with blood.<br/>
<br/>
"'Twas said that this Warden did rise from a corrupted faerie," Urianger remarks as they pick their way out of the mine, trying to figure out how to climb up the tunnels they had so gaily jumped down through. It already seems as if there are fewer Sin Eaters, though it may be the result of a more-than-sufficient job clearing the way in. "Named such for the love which suffused its surroundings, left from the ghost of another."<br/>
<br/>
"Was it?" Fray asks, clearing his throat while his mind treacherously counts what it remembers of the Lightwarden's wings.<br/>
<br/>
The dizziness doesn't leave him, though. Fray clambers obediently up the ropes that Ryne and Thancred drop down for guidance, but each motion feels as if it costs twice as much energy than it should. His nerves feel as if they are slowly burning away, like embers in the ashes of his fingers. He lags far enough behind the group's pace that he ends up the last in line, claiming that he's simply on watch for any Sin Eaters behind them. Each time they pause to give Ryne the time to scout up the cliffs, Fray leans heavily against the nearest wall, grateful to rest and trying to hide it.<br/>
<br/>
The widest of the shafts requires both Ryne and Thancred to scurry up together, tying off ropes and looking for alternate routes as they stake out which beams look the sturdiest. In the end, there is no answer but to climb. Each handhold feels malms apart. Fray braces himself the entire way up, palms fumbling against the cliff as his fingers feel too weak to hold a sword, let alone his entire body. <br/>
<br/>
By the time he's nearly to the top, vertigo has crept up around him, leaving his nerves shivering. If he isn't careful, he'll fall right off, and likely break his back on his own greatsword. He pauses, trapped like a mouse on a ledge, too afraid to move lest he pass out on the spot -- and then Thancred is there, bracing himself as he reaches down to grip Fray's right arm tightly, his broad palm wrapping like a steel promise around Fray's bones.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on," he tells Fray with a grin, and then Urianger is reaching for Fray's other hand, and between them both, they heft him up and over the side.<br/>
<br/>
It is not, Fray reminds himself, because they actually <em>care</em> about him. Thancred and Urianger help only because they imagine he is someone else, and Fray will not dispel them of that notion. <br/>
<br/>
But as they finish lifting him onto solid ground, steadying him between them with their palms firm against his body, Fray spots Ryne hovering worriedly behind them, and he knows that that is not the sole reason anymore.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The pain does not leave him entirely, even after they limp back to Mord Souq. It makes him more snappish than even he would like, failing his own standards of self-discipline. The lapse makes him twice as irritable. He tries to hide it at first, burrowing away in silence -- but he discovers, surprisingly, that the Scions question him less than he expects. The concerned glances which come this time are ones simply of his health, of his rest, and Fray finds -- unexpectedly, like waking up and finding a sore arm moving freely once more -- that he has settled into place after all.<br/>
<br/>
It makes it a little easier to keep up the act of being the Warrior, even if every day takes a renewal of practice. Fray has become marginally better at holding his tongue and his blade; he rolls his eyes more often than he reaches for his sword, though it still takes effort. He is no saint, no martyr for nations. He has no loyalty to Hydaelyn, nor even to the Source. <br/>
<br/>
And, like every dark knight who has ever felt the abyss flood through them and shake away their restraint, it makes Fray into a thing that no one -- not even Emet-Selch -- expects.<br/>
<br/>
<em>My blessing will be strong enough</em>, he had told the Exarch. <b><em>I</em></b><em> will be strong enough.</em> The memory makes him laugh, dry-mouthed into the crook of his arm at night, bracing his forehead against the leather of his coat as he buries his face against it. He cannot reveal his condition now. It will only give the Exarch more reason to press his case, and demand the impossible: for Fray to somehow take back the remainder of his blessing from Titania, when both it and Fray belong to the King instead. </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>After devouring enough of his aether, the Light finds some equilibrium -- though not by much. The dizziness either ebbs away, or Fray simply gets better at ignoring it, compensating by letting his sword take wider swings, lazier sweeps that make him a sloppier fighter, carving up the battlefield in wide arcs that Zenos would applaud. At best, the Light is an unpleasant prickle, one which inevitably turns into needles and then knives, boring through his skin. At worst -- at worst, he cannot afford to let anyone see. <br/>
<br/>
He goes out again through Amh Araeng this time, thinking to lose himself in the distractions of work as the Scions do their research in preparing for the last Lightwarden, and dodging around Eulmore's forces in the meantime. There are a thousand small side jobs that people deem worth the Savior of Eorzea's attention -- now the Savior of Norvrandt, albeit unrecognized -- and most of them involve carrying various boxes and gathering up sand wrigglers from the wilderness.<br/>
<br/>
It is makework, all of it, but it is the only comfort Fray can find against the raw pain inside him, disorienting him and leaving him dazed when he can least afford it. The Light eats at his aether. Loneliness devours his soul. He has always lived with Titania beside him, <em>with</em> him, deeper than flesh and bone, and it is not the act of leaving which hurts the most. It is the smaller moments which are permanently eroding Fray like desert sand, whittling down his determination every time he thinks of Titania, reaching for them in the quiet of his thoughts before remembering that they will never respond back again.<br/>
<br/>
It's horrible. Maybe if this was all he'd ever known from the start, then Fray could count himself lucky still. To live ignorant of what it was like to bear a shared heartbeat, to feel emotions mingling together as freely as two rivers of water journeying towards the ocean. The hopelessness of his separation is a different thing, a consequence far worse than the loss of a limb: it is the loss of a soul. It grabs him around the chest when he least expects it, like the hand of a giant or a magitek colossus crushing him to a pulp until Fray cannot breathe through the pressure, and he cannot imagine surviving for even one more sun.<br/>
<br/>
He agreed to it. He had <em>agreed</em>. But it hurts anyway.<br/>
<br/>
He slaughters his way through Amh Araeng, exterminating an entire family of cacti, and delivers the hacked-up chunks of a baby gigantender to one delighted Mord, who frolics and claps at his prowess. <br/>
<br/>
When they ask if he is willing to take on another task -- the Mord begging eagerly for his assistance, offering only coin and filthy trinkets in exchange -- Fray agrees.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Titania comes to him in the deserts of Amh Araeng.<br/>
<br/>
He barely remembers calling out for them. The paltry tasks he had set himself on this time had led him in circles around the Fields and Hills of Amber, cutting through trolly tracks and past windmills. Titania's name had wandered through his mind with equal aimlessness; Fray must have whispered it, half-awake, like an absent prayer muttered to the Twelve even when he knows no gods are listening.<br/>
<br/>
He feels hotter than he should, even more irritable and tired from the road, as if the dust has leeched his thoughts all out of him. One of his legs is beginning to cramp painfully, though he cannot recall straining it. The boulder at his back feels either hot or cold -- he can't tell which -- and he keeps trying to press his cheek against it to tell. Even when he hears the whisper of Titania's gown against the sand, he finds himself wondering if they are truly <em>there</em>: when his heart reaches out automatically towards the abyss, opening itself wide in hungry yearning, there is only a dull silence back.<br/>
<br/>
Then the shadow of Titania's wings skims across the sand, and there is the slightest tug of force in his chest, a miniscule nudge through the buzz of Light blocking everything else out. Without wasting time on theatrics, Titania kneels beside him, and discerns at least part of his condition with a glance. "You're parched. Have you been drinking enough in this heat?"<br/>
<br/>
Fray tries to tilt his head towards them, but only gets halfway, forced to squint at them from the corner of his eye. "I'm sure it's been enough." He never paid much attention to how much the Warrior had generally consumed back on the Source; deserts were unpleasant, irritating places to walk through, and Fray had avoided experiencing them as much as possible. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"<br/>
<br/>
They shake their head, the cloud of their hair rippling in sinuous coils overhead. "Here."<br/>
<br/>
The water that they summon in their palms is crisp, distilled directly from raw aether -- but with a sweetness that he expects is natural to all their conjurations now, as faerie-wrought magicks. He manages to drink at first only because they tilt the liquid directly into his mouth; water drips messily down his chin and spatters on his armor. He swallows only out of habit -- and then eagerly, the moisture reawakening some primitive instinct in his body until he is gulping it down, pressing Titania's fingers against his lips as he sucks the last few drops off, mouth searching their palms for any remaining fluid.<br/>
<br/>
They stop before he feels sated, though he can feel his stomach already uncomfortably full -- saving him once more from himself, he guesses. <br/>
<br/>
"It's only thirst," he insists groggily. "I'm a dark knight. Thirst will make me stronger."<br/>
<br/>
"Thirst will make you <em>dead</em>," Titania retorts, and wipes at his chin with their fingers. "You'll give yourself sun sickness, if you haven't already. When you bed down tonight -- in a <em>proper </em>inn room -- make sure to drink two more full glasses, and insist on sleeping in. The final Lightwarden will not scamper away like a mouse in the night."<br/>
<br/>
With that, their wings fan open like vast sails, deliberately spreading in a curtain between them and the sun; color dapples Fray's skin and streaks the sides of Titania's face, painting them both in orange and gold. The shade immediately feels better. Gingerly, Fray pulls off his gloves with a wince, feeling the leather stick to his skin, and frowns at the handful of broken blisters which are already threatening an infection. "Just don't send a pixie to play nursemaid with me."<br/>
<br/>
"There's no pixie who deserves that much punishment yet. They wouldn't do well at it anyhow. Lie down." Settling down upon the packed earth, Titania stretches out their legs and waits insistently until Fray obeys, stretching out with his head in their lap, too tired to resist.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes drift half-closed almost instantly. Tension pours out of him in one slow sigh, leaving him meek and boneless against their body. Titania's gown smells of pine trees and moss, familiar enough that he nuzzles his face into it, grateful for the softness. <br/>
<br/>
When a slice of something cold sears his forehead, he flinches back with a groan before he realizes what it is: ice, he realizes, summoned from the same nature that allowed Titania to call water into the desert. He relaxes into the sensation once he realizes that it's not a new threat. "You're better at magicks now, I see."<br/>
<br/>
"You're worse at living." Brushing his bangs aside to better apply the ice, Titania pauses when they come across the rough patch of a scab, concealed beneath the hairs. "What happened here?"<br/>
<br/>
Fray hisses before he remembers he should hide the pain, but it's too late; Titania has already caught sight of the injury, probing further with an insistent touch. "I started teaching Ryne some meditation exercises to help her better communicate with Minfilia. After that, we went and threw rocks at Sin Eaters until one of them sprouted wings and came for us."<br/>
<br/>
Titania's fingers are more careful now, stroking across the scab as if they could smooth the wound away. "I had no idea they were capable of that."<br/>
<br/>
"I suppose with enough rocks, even an eater can discover new talents." Water oozes from the melting ice, drenching Fray's skin. Each drop is cold enough to make him flinch, but he's thinking more clearly now, no longer in danger of overheating and cooking his brains out. "Between us, we're four Lightwardens down already -- two for you, two for me. There's only one left, and then I suppose we can figure out how to actually <em>do</em> something with all the blasted aether we've collected. That is, unless the Exarch plans to weld us to the Tower and use us to power the Crystarium for the next few centuries to come, which is always a possibility."<br/>
<br/>
"Is it any easier to fight them?"<br/>
<br/>
Rather than answer right away, Fray turns his face to exhale directly into Titania's sleeve: a weak attempt to dodge the question. He is so tired. All he wants to do is rest, comforted beyond all words by the simple presence of Titania there beside him. The Light prickles his muscles, battering against the prison of their shared blessing; it seeks to leap the gap in the same way that their spirits are brushing together, but Fray ignores it. The pain in his chest has eased. For the first time in days, it doesn't hurt to breathe.<br/>
<br/>
"No," he admits. "But when have I ever cared about things being easy?"<br/>
<br/>
The reminder at least brings a smile back to Titania's face, and they wipe away a trickle of water before it can drip directly into his eye. "Myste thinks we should gift you with a porxie," they suggest, and though the tone is playful, the look they give him is assessing enough to be serious. "To cradle in your arms at night, and help you sleep."<br/>
<br/>
"I will kill the boy."<br/>
<br/>
"Then we'll send you two." Titania brushes his bangs back across his forehead placidly. "It isn't good for you to always be in pain, Fray." <br/>
<br/>
Opening his eyes, Fray catches Titania's fingers, twining his own around them to hold them in place. "I am your darkness," he reminds them, emphasizing each word. "It's all right if it hurts. Remember, I know how to make that pain into the strength I need to keep going. And who better," he reasons with a dry laugh, knowing how much he would have mocked himself for saying these same words in a different time, on a different star, "to carry the Light than someone who will be made that much stronger by its resistance?"<br/>
<br/>
Titania inclines their head by a fractional amount, their jaw set in a displeasure so carefully hidden that, if Fray had never witnessed the reaction from the inside of their soul, he would have missed it. "Il Mheg will fight for you, if you need it." Their wings flex, stirring up the faintest breeze. "Not from my urging, but from the debt owed to those who return the night. You need not fear a bargain unfed."<br/>
<br/>
"If Il Mheg comes to my aid, then I'll have done a poor job indeed of keeping you out of mortal politics." He turns their hand around, facing their palm towards him. Their skin feels smoother without calluses; Fray entertains himself in comparing it to his own, ilm by ilm. "What will you do, centuries from now, without me to protect you from pesky supplicants?"<br/>
<br/>
The question is wistful, and he expects Titania to to come up with some merry quip -- but the look that the King gives him is perplexed, instead of amused.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll be there," they answer simply, faithfully. "You'll be there with me, or neither of us will."<br/>
<br/>
"Titania --"<br/>
<br/>
"Either we don't have any time, or we'll have forever. It's the same thing to the fae folk. Sit up. Your stomach should be ready to drink a little more."<br/>
<br/>
He obeys automatically, as if the command were a tug of emotion reeling him up instead, back when they shared the same flesh -- the same soul, the same spirit, breathing with the same desires -- and then leans back against them as Titania offers their shoulder, their wings blocking out the grit of the desert winds as Amh Araeng begins to cool into night.<br/>
<br/>
They cup their hands, already wet. He bows his head to them, drinking more carefully now, his jaw bumping against their thumb. <br/>
<br/>
Around them, pinpoints of light glitter in the sands. Slowly -- like insects shaping themselves from the oncoming evening -- colors drift up into the air, dissolving into mist. Plants begin to uncoil, their leaves opening into broad, green flags as they shake off the arid dirt. As water drips down his chin, Fray watches the circle of Titania's protection rise, nature encircling them both within a faerie ring that will wither with the dawn, drying away under the merciless desert light.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The death of four Lightwardens whips Eulmore into a frenzy. They have attacked Lakeland, Slitherbough and Yx'Maja, even Il Mheg itself; they make enemies of all the rest of Norvrandt gladly under Vauthry's belligerence, razing what remains of the world with the eagerness of those who intend to see nothing left behind once they are finished.</p><p>The night has bled its relentless way across the First, and Fray has bled with it.</p><p>Every time he dares to check upon Titania -- whether it is by directly calling to them, or by posing questions to Feo Ul and making idle comments to the pixies -- the verdict is always the same. Titania has shown no negative symptoms; the Light holds firmly within them, pinned in place. The cant of their aether towards Umbral has not tipped the balance for them into a fatal decay -- unlike Fray, whose body feels as if it is perpetually burning, consumed in pieces to feed the Light bottled within his skin. </p><p>It does not matter. Titania is safe. He would kill a thousand more Wardens, as long as they remain that way.</p><p>What Fray <em>does</em> know, however, is how easily the opposite might have been true. If he had not intervened, then the Warrior had taken on the burden of five Lightwardens on their own -- as the Exarch had intended. Even without being aligned towards Darkness, it surely would have meant their destruction.</p><p>Two is painful -- but survivable. Fray has no other choice <em>but</em> to endure it. For each fresh weakness that is being carved into his body, he fills the breach with a stone of pure determination. He digs up every trick he knows of being a dark knight and applies it with a vengeance; he allows his anger to fester, nurturing his hatred and rage, weaving his own aether into a wall against the Light. Pain becomes his mortar, holding the cracks in his soul together. Eventually, it may be the only thing left of him, remade entirely in bitterness like liquid gold poured into a goldsmith's mold: a figurine in the shape of a man, strung together to operate like a doll upon command.</p><p>But as Fray shudders in his bedroll each night, unsure if he can withstand even a single day more, he thinks of Titania and the slow, halting way that they are <em>finally</em> healing. Each smile feels more and more natural upon their face; the perpetual self-recrimination is seeping out of their bones. For the first time since Fray has ever known them, they are making tentative steps towards a life of their own, instead of being sacrificed in favor of everyone else's. </p><p>He will not give up on them -- and that means Fray cannot give up on anything <em>else</em>, if it gives him the power to protect them.</p><p>As scouts continue to investigate Eulmore, and the Scions regroup in the Crystarium, Fray takes to Norvrandt again restlessly, plunging himself into the relief of whatever darkness he can find. Any hope of his own aether rebalancing itself with the presence of the Light seems futile now; the Wardens are either too much or he is too little, his body being forced to gorge on aether in too vast an amount for it to process at once. Rather than restore his balance of Umbral and Astral, the Light has decided to annihilate him instead, scraping him thin with each breath. </p><p>Even with the relief of the night, the pain continues to crest higher each time. He cannot tell what is worse, whether it is his aether or his spirit or his mind which screams loudest; every part of him feels as if it is dying, curling up like an insect under glass. The Light couples with the wasteland of his soul, until Fray finally finds himself staggering through a pass in the Greatwood, reeling like a drunkard as agony overrides all sense of balance. Massive tree trunks surround him like the wooden bars of a cage, blocking him in no matter where he turns. One of his hands is scrabbling at his chest with an animal's confused distress, clawing at a pain that has no relief. </p><p>All he has to do is call for Titania. They will answer. They will fret over him, and touch their hands to his face -- and they will realize, Fray knows, just how badly he is tearing himself apart.</p><p>He cannot admit to them how much he hurts.</p><p>The decision lasts as long as a single heartbeat before he is already trying to fight it. Every part of him craves the comfort of Titania's presence, even if for only a little while. All he needs is the brief satisfaction of seeing them alive, to breathe and rest for a time with Titania beside him, reminding him of why he endures it all when he cannot feel them any other way -- not when the abyss stands empty and his mind has only his own thoughts, circling madly against the Light. Not when he will never feel them again in the way he has always known, with their soul twining through his own and whispering directly into his heart.</p><p>"Titan -- " he gets as far as saying, a ragged, hoarse cry before he stops himself, shoving the back of his hand against his mouth to stifle his own voice.</p><p><em>It will only make me stronger</em>, he insists to himself -- a poor echo of the same lectures he had given the Warrior -- and finds a different reminder floating up through his thoughts in reply.</p><p>
  <em>The parts I thought would be easy are the ones I must struggle to master. And that which I thought would be impossible -- those are the easiest parts.</em>
</p><p>Even in memory, Titania's voice is enough to make him ache. Fray bends his head against the soil, and exhales raggedly, each breath teetering on the verge of a sob. The ache in his chest is spreading outwards all the way down his limbs, a dull clenching of heat that feels as if his body will break apart if he moves, as if he will burst out of his own flesh like a Sin Eater's grotesque cocoon. His lungs are inflamed, breathing in glass instead of air.</p><p>He cannot tell Titania. He cannot let them know.</p><p>He is so <em>alone</em>.</p><p>Finally, the pain ebbs enough that Fray is able to push back against the earth in a dull attempt to fight back against something, <em>anything</em>, even if it's the dirt itself. Rocking back to sit upright, he feels the greatsword jabbing into the soil; he twists around to keep the blade clear, and ends up sprawling, one leg kicked out gracelessly even as his swordbelt creaks a protest against his armor.</p><p>He feels so exhausted and uncaring of his own indignity that he doesn't even have the heart to yell at Ardbert when he sees the man coming towards him through the woods. </p><p>Ardbert gives him the mercy of not sparing him any words, staring down at Fray with an expression that doesn't know if it wants to settle on sympathetic, or intensely disapproving. "Why are you doing this?"</p><p>"What, saving <em>your</em> godsdamned shard because you couldn't do it yourselves?" The flicker of resentment is good; Fray scrabbles for it like a candle in a snowstorm. It gives him enough strength to straighten his shoulders from how he's slumped over, at least, so he can squint angrily at what other people would only see as thin air. "I imagine the answer is self-evident in that respect."</p><p>The shade only gives him a brief frown, studying his face. "And Titania? Do you still feel this was the right decision?"</p><p>Fray pulls in a breath. He can feel his energy returning, a little, with someone to argue against. "Every time I see them, they are happier," he shrugs. He manages to make a careless wave at himself, his armor, the sky. "And look at me now, anyway. I used to think about what I'd do all the time, if I ever got control over the body. I'd take us to Bloodshore, with Costa del Sol. Or I'd leave us farming in Yanxia somewhere now that the Garleans have left, learning how to grow rice and arguing with the beetles. But the answer has never changed. If Feo Ul asked me again, I would say yes."</p><p><em>Foolish words</em>, he would have called his speech, had it come from another. He <em>should</em> say them about himself. But Ardbert -- luckily or not -- is there already to do it for him, for the man folds his arms with belligerent practicality. "<em>So?</em> It doesn't matter what your intentions were at the start. If you keep up like this, you'll kill yourself, and then what good will you be to Titania then?"</p><p>Like a flood refilling his heart, the outrage of it is finally enough to propel Fray back to his feet; his body feels like a puppet, exhausted and broken, but his willpower yanks at its strings until it obeys. Raw aether curls around his ankles as he walks, lashing and snapping as the Light within him seeks to spark against it. Without waiting, he stalks directly for Ardbert, his boots trampling the grass with methodical intent. </p><p>For a moment, the shade does not move. Then -- realizing that Fray does not mean to stop his approach -- Ardbert startles and takes a hesitant half-step backwards. Then another. It is a familiar awkwardness to Fray's eyes, the result of too many years spent as a spirit without anyone else interacting with him, and now Ardbert lacks any sense of how to respond when someone <em>does</em>.</p><p>Fray pursues him with each retreat, faster than Ardbert can flee, until the shade finally stops completely, too baffled to know what to do next. One of the man's shoulders is half-lodged within a tree. Fray ignores it, leaning in close enough until his shoulder is by Ardbert's chin, his mouth by the man's ear: another set of twins in face and form, and different in all the ways that matter.</p><p>He watches Ardbert's breathing speed up nervously, his gaze flitting towards Fray's eyes and away, then back again, like a moth confusing a candle for the moon.</p><p>"You should know this pain <em>exactly</em>, shade." The murmur of Fray's voice is a purring thing, heavy with menace. "To cry out for others to stop, to run, to save themselves. To have your voice unheard, your hands empty of touch, no flesh with which to grasp a weapon, no shield to block a blow. You <em>know</em> the helplessness of watching another suffer before your eyes, while you stand unseen in the shadows. Would you not walk through the seven hells yourself if it meant you could save even the smallest, most meager <em>wretch </em>of them?" </p><p>With that, Fray shifts his weight back -- but only enough to look Ardbert directly in the eyes, unwilling to spare the man so easily. "Do not presume to claim that <em>you</em> would do aught different in my stead," he hisses, close enough that their skin would have the illusion of brushing, if Ardbert still had flesh to touch. "I <em>know</em> the torment of the intangible. I have tasted your bitterness already. So, by all means, <em>continue </em>to make your feeble protests. Unlike you, I will not squander <em>my</em> chance."</p><p>Locked in place under his gaze, Ardbert wets his lips but cannot speak. His breath goes unfelt against Fray's skin, without even the chill of the grave to mark it. They are shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip -- but it is Ardbert who seems smaller, body tensed and eyes blinking in disbelief.</p><p>Finally, the man manages to find his voice. "Then you best take twice as much care not to die, Warrior -- on both our behalves."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When the message comes, beckoning for Fray to return to the Crystarium in order to prepare for Eulmore, he is unaccountably grateful for how easily the city accepts him. He nods his way past the guards, who let him by unchallenged; he is too weary to keep up a glare, but no one gives him cause. Instead, Fray limps through the ornate domes and walkways and drops himself into the first chair he reaches in his quarters, only stirring when the Pendants's staff send in hot water and food and drink -- along with lather soap and a razor, both of which Fray eyes warily, as if they will bite him of their own accord.<br/><br/>When a stiff flurry of knocking comes at his door, he ignores it. It reverberates again; he ignores <em>that </em>as well, along with the third round. The fourth nearly breaks his resolve until it goes quiet suddenly -- and then returns, along with the Manager of Suites himself, and Fray has to explain with a towel wrapped around his midsection that he has not suddenly died in the bath. <br/><br/>All told, it is a poor method for the Exarch to summon him. Even without the frustration of being interrupted, Fray's first impulse is to refuse strictly on principle. There are few enough bells left in the night for rest, and they will be thrown into a battlefront come morning; Fray needs all the sleep he can get.<br/><br/>But -- like Ardbert -- the irritation gives Fray some sparse amount of strength back, and he drags himself to the Tower anyway, giving the door guard a bleak stare even as his hair is still drying.<br/><br/>The Exarch does not comment on Fray's half-shaven state, nor the lack of armor which usually accompanies him -- or, that even while dressed in a simple tunic and slops, Fray still carries his sword. He does, at least, acknowledge the time, which does nothing to mollify Fray's temper; most of the Crystarium residents have a complete inability to track the progress between early evening and midnight, and if the Exarch had pled similar ignorance, it might have been at least an excuse.<br/><br/>But the man merely bows his head, undeterred by Fray's pointed yawns. "My apologies for the interruption, Warrior. I know you have many affairs to attend." The staff in his hand gleams under the pale azure light. "Yet, as the time draws closer to our expedition against Eulmore, I feel we needs must speak -- if you are willing?"<br/><br/>Fray does not bother to conceal the narrow, unimpressed look he delivers back. "Go on."<br/><br/>He half-expects the Exarch to launch into a lengthy speech on the spot, and is already considering an escape route -- but the Exarch merely pads down from the dais and extends a hand towards one of the side doorways, and Fray holds back a sigh at the unending dramatics of scholars. <br/><br/>His shoe stubs over the chip in the floor as he starts to follow, and he glances down at it, oddly humored that the blemish still has not been repaired. But he cannot resist the urge to prod, either, not when he still lacks any explanation for his midnight summons. "Aren't you going to fix your floor, Exarch? Stick a rug over it, mayhap?"<br/><br/>The Exarch pauses, his fingers splayed across the door to hold it open. "On the contrary," he remarks. His tone is humored, not irate. "It seems proof of your vow to defeat the Light. I know full well how important it can be to have a reminder of these things, when the road ahead seems too difficult to follow."<br/><br/>"A poor memorial it is, then." Not bothering to wait until they arrive in whatever ornate showhall the Exarch surely has prepared, Fray stalks along the hallway behind the man, watching the humming of Allagan lights wink on and off in eternal calculations. Stairwells wrought entirely from crystal and gold split apart around them, swooping away in spirals intent on piercing the sky. "We march on Eulmore tomorrow, Exarch. If your plan is to reveal some new fact which will leave me sleepless with worry, then best do it quickly so I can get back to my quarters sooner rather than later."<br/><br/>It comes out gruff, even by Fray's standards -- but no less honest. Thankfully, the Exarch merely acknowledges the complaint with a tilt of his head. "I will endeavor to be succinct," he agrees softly, a wry smile already giving the lie to his claim -- but his footsteps pick up by a fractional amount of speed, staff clacking on the stones. <br/><br/>The side door he finally pushes open is narrow and unadorned. It is an unexpectedly modest chamber, but only by the Tower's standards: the floor is a neat circle studded with bracings where crystal panels must have once stood, converted from some research laboratory into a sitting room. An entire rack of former containment units has been cleared out, and various belts, coats, and supply pouches hang from the rails instead. Tables of various sizes litter the room, cluttered with books and spare machinery parts; there's even a tray of the ridiculous sandwiches that Fray's become far too accustomed to by now, the Exarch constantly sending them to his quarters like peace offerings made from chopped lettuce and mustard. <br/><br/>"Tea?"<br/><br/>Fray nods, studying the placement of the mismatched chairs in search of one that leaves him without his back to the door, and also the shortest path to escape in case the conversation sours. "Aye," he accepts, comfortable enough with the choice of brew. Tea offers less of a chance for intoxication -- Fray is many things, but a namazu is not among them -- though not for poisoning or other alchemies. "If you have a cup."<br/><br/>The answer, apparently, is many, judging from the stack of dishware that the Exarch uncovers from underneath a towel. He sets the boilmaster to heat the water up, and then deftly pairs out two teacups and a tin of leaves. "With each night that passes by, the spirits of the Crystarium residents lift that much higher. You should know that you have brought great hope to all who dwell upon the First, Warrior."<br/><br/>The idea of wasting the evening bells in pleasantries immediately causes Fray to bristle. "Get to the point." <br/><br/>He hears the small breath that the Exarch takes, a soft exhalation of, <em>well</em>, that comes uttered like a curse -- and while Fray can tell that he has disconcerted the man, he does not know why. "I understand your reluctance to trust me, even after our successes here. And, though victory may seem close at hand, the danger grows even higher. The Light has reached the point of direct injury to you, correct?"<br/><br/>Self-consciously tugging his tunic straight, Fray lifts his chin. "I haven't vomited up my innards and had my face drip off in chunks yet, if that's your concern."<br/><br/>The mental image clearly distresses the Exarch, for the man makes a distinct wince, though his voice remains unnervingly mild. "Your continued health remains a source of relief. Yet I suspect that your legendary stoicism is as much your enemy as the Wardens themselves are right now." The kettle hisses; the Exarch flicks off the heat before pinching out leaves for both cups, fingers quick and precise in stark contrast to the languor of his voice. "Y'shtola and Urianger have been watching over you as well, and while they say that the blessing of Light remains, your aether has shown signs of escalated decay --- as if it is not being corrupted, but <em>eradicated</em>. Umbral, destroying that which is Astral. Destroying <em>you</em>. If you should continue to fight without adequate protection, we may be embracing disaster instead of hope."<br/><br/>Steam curls up from both teacups. Fray studies his with sour displeasure. The thought of allowing the Exarch to claim he was right all along is abhorrent; Fray would sooner lie down with Vauthry and press his lips to the face on the man's teat. "There is but one Lightwarden left," he states, hoping to turn the conversation away from him, and back onto practical tasks. "So long as no others appear, my strength should more than suffice. And <em>then</em>, I suppose," he adds grimly, "we can decide what to actually <em>do </em>about the Light. Or were you simply going to leave it penned up inside me so that it could explode upon my eventual death back home? Save the First, swive the Source, is <em>that </em>your plan?"<br/><br/>The brazenness of his accusation startles the Exarch, who straightens up in his chair -- so much so that Fray wonders if this is the first time he's ever been challenged directly on his methods before, or if the man had simply talked circles around people until they were too dizzy to protest. "<em>Never</em>. Containment of the Light has always been merely the first goal. I will <em>not</em> sacrifice you to it." He draws a sharp breath, the rise of his chest visible despite the thickness of his robes, and plants Fray's cup of tea before him like a battle flag. "Ryne will go with you to fight Eulmore's Lightwarden, correct? If <em>she</em> should take on the Light from both you and Titania, then she would be there as a reserve. You would only need to bear one, at most -- and, should your blessing fail at that stage, she would be there in support. In fact, it might be best for her to be prepared for all five. I understand that you have had great success in mentoring her to work with Minfilia, correct?"<br/><br/>The logic is so clean that Fray wants to laugh at its transparency. There is no reason for Fray to refuse it -- none, save that he does not trust the Crystal Exarch, and no part of the man's actions since Il Mheg have altered that. "<em>Or</em> I could simply bring Ryne with me, and <em>she </em>could handle the weight of Eulmore's Warden on the spot without Titania's involvement at all." Fanning one hand in a shrug, he goes in for the direct strike. "Tell me, Exarch -- why <em>do</em> you press to have it concentrated in a single individual, particularly when its hazards are now known?"<br/><br/>It takes a strange amount of effort before the Exarch replies this time, his glibness suspended. The man lays both his hands flat upon the table, staring down at them, his fingers shifting slightly as he lines them up in mirror images beside the other: flesh and crystal, cousins to dark and light. "Should the Light remain at its current potency, we may need to act quickly once it has been completely restrained. If we could but gather it briefly into one vessel, mayhap we could find a bearer which could endure its safe translocation in that span. Mayhap... even something within the Tower and its ability to cross the rift."<br/><br/>In the silence that falls, the sound of Fray's fingernail tapping against his teacup is like the ticking of an alarm. The Exarch's plan has all the earmarks of needing a hero. It is a strategy that altruists would volunteer gladly for, flinging themselves eagerly into a sacrifice to save two worlds -- a fate that Ryne might have demanded for herself, once. That Minfilia Warde <em>had</em>, as the Word of the Mother. <br/><br/>That the Warrior of Light would have embraced willingly, if they had been sitting here instead.<br/><br/>It is the Exarch's poor luck, then, that Fray is who he is. <br/><br/>"There are other advantages as well, aren't there?" Not bothering to even pretend appearing impressed, Fray stretches back against his chair, his hand settling with deliberate casualness against his greatsword. "Your explanation lacks the integrity I would expect for a man of your learning, <em>Exarch</em>. I know how to recognize when one is being played as a pawn. You gain from having the Light in a single form that is easier to track, easier to imprison -- and easier to <em>use</em>, don't you."<br/><br/>Put back on the defensive, the Exarch looks down towards his teacup, the contents still untouched. As if in plaintive hope that it has somehow transformed itself into liquor, he lifts it and drains the whole amount, not flinching from the heat. <br/><br/>"There are other explanations which do not add up, my friend," he counters after he has finished, setting it down with a click. "If the blessing of Light were so easily shared by a mere attunement, then every aetheryte would be thus empowered, and share their protection in turn to any traveler who passed through their flow. I have asked for an audience with the new Titania as a gesture of renewed peace between our nations, and have heard only the request to wait. Even Feo Ul refuses to share any news of the new King, as if there is a higher command which bids them hold their tongue. This Titania, who holds your face and aether, and has left you vulnerable against the very Wardens you <em>should</em> be indomitable against. I know little of them -- and that, in turn, increases my concern for <em>you</em>." <br/><br/>The Exarch falls quiet then, long enough to pick up the kettle and refill his cup, each motion buying him more time to construct his next argument. "I understand well how grief for the fallen can motivate one to extreme measures." His tone is tempered now, sliding away from accusation and into something unidentifiable and strained, too fragile to be shared at any volume louder than a whisper. "There are sorrows which we all keep private within ourselves, even from those whom we love. I do not know the whole of what you have lost, my friend. But I know that you <em>have</em>. Y'shtola has informed me that your loyalty to the Faerie King stems from compassion -- and yet, it is clear to us <em>all</em> that you remain in pain. If there is aught we can do to repair this, then give us but a single sign. Please. Allow us to <em>help</em>."<br/><br/>There is a horrible tangle inside Fray's belly, one which twists tighter with each word the Exarch utters. He had known that his harsher behavior had not been entirely overlooked; it is impossible for him to imitate the Warrior of Light perfectly, not when Fray would end up murdering everyone in the room after only a bell. But he had hoped -- foolishly, <em>stupidly</em> -- that his own callousness might push everyone away over time, keeping them at an arm's length while they simply made assumptions about the Warrior they had once known, their loyalty fading slowly when none of it was returned in kind. <br/><br/>And he can continue telling himself that, except that it <em>isn't</em> a lie that the Fray is losing his half of the war. It isn't a misunderstanding. Each fresh day feels like another chance to keep <em>dying</em>, and now it turns out that <em>everyone</em> can see it in him -- and everyone, idiotically enough, still <em>cares</em>.  <br/><br/>His voice does not work properly when he tries to shape it into a dismissive laugh, picking at the only target he can find. "You and I are <em>strangers</em>, Exarch. To you, I am little more than a convenient weapon snatched from another's armory, aimed at your enemies while you hold the lives of the Scions as hostage. I find it strange for you to profess concern for me, when your first priority should be loyalty to your own people. Is it pity which drives you? Have I become your <em>pet?</em>"<br/><br/>He should not have said it. But he cannot look at the Exarch's face directly; the entire room feels as if it is staring back at him, silently mourning on his behalf just when he thought that he'd had everyone fooled, and had convinced them all to turn away.<br/><br/>On the table, the Exarch's hands close slowly, making loose fists against the wood before his left one -- the one still made of flesh -- shifts to cover the crystal half, as if seeking to hide the evidence of his own transformation when it is far too late. "Long have I planned for how to conduct this final act," he admits at last. "A single vessel of Light, to be excised from this world. But fate itself has chosen to scatter all those strategies apart, and to risk the life of the one person I would not see harmed." <br/><br/>He starts to speak again, and fails, gathering his breath back inside him until he can finally turn it into speech. "It is understandable that you would mistrust me, after all the betrayals which have stained your path. Mayhap... this will explain the matter."<br/><br/>With that, the Exarch lifts both hands to his hood, and pulls it down.<br/><br/>At first glance, the miqo'te underneath does not seem particularly remarkable. Crystals thread the skin all the way up his neck and face, though no worse than the Exarch's cowl had revealed before. The tips of his hair are pale, but Fray has visited Limsa Lominsa before; he has seen far stranger combinations. Only the Exarch's eyes strike him as odd: a crimson as bright as fresh blood, and even then, merely because the color nags at him. The Warrior would remember the man, most certainly. If Titania were nearby -- if he were <em>with</em> Titania still -- then perhaps Fray would have the answer then.<br/><br/>One heartbeat passes. Then another. Then the Exarch makes a slight nod, closing his eyes briefly in what might have been a prayer, or simply resignation.<br/><br/>"Do you recognize me, my friend?" he asks gently, laying out the sounds like the incisions of a chirurgeon with their sharpest knives, cutting away flesh before the nerves even have time to sing.<br/><br/>As the seconds continue to stretch out after the question, Fray scrapes his mind for any recognition at all. Any name, any history; some grand battle where the Warrior must have saved this person's life, or possibly just saved them from a mislaid pair of shoes. He opens his mouth, struggling to come up with -- if nothing else -- a feasible excuse for why he does not remember, but it is already too late. <br/><br/>The corner of the Exarch's lips quirk in a rueful acknowledgement. Then his expression crumples, even as he seeks to cover it with a splayed hand; his breath comes out in soft, gutted laughs, despite how his mouth is clearly set in a grimace. The sound is relieved and distraught all at once, unburdening itself only by virtue of having lost something so unspeakably precious that nothing else could ever hold value again.<br/><br/>"As I suspected," he declares in one long gasp, once he finally recovers enough to lower his hand. "It seems as if we both have secrets to keep."<br/><br/>It is <em>infuriating </em>not to have the man's name handy, to have the entire act that Fray has worked so hard be dispelled with such a simple challenge. "I <em>do </em>remember you. From the Source -- but it has been some time," he bluffs. "It has been a long road between then and now, after all."<br/><br/>"And yet, I know that I am not simply that forgettable, for 'twas you yourself who asked for me <em>by name </em>when you arrived." Brushing aside Fray's flimsy excuse, the Exarch makes one final sigh. With the motion, his entire body goes slack against his chair, as if he had been holding the question in his bones ever since the first of the Scions had arrived. "Your memories at the time were not affected, nor your aetheric balance. Yet the Warrior I see before me is not an arcane construct either, or illusion born of Ascian puppetry. The blessing of Light cannot be fabricated. Y'shtola alone would have taken a glance at you and seen through the ruse."<br/><br/>Suppressing a fresh wave of disgust at the cleverness of scholars, Fray scowls at his cup. It would ruin any advantage of surprise if he glanced directly towards his sword, but he does mark the distance between it and his hand from the corner of his eye. "And what will you do with your suspicions, now that you have more fodder for them? If you imagine I can be <em>threatened </em>into bringing Titania to you, you're an even greater fool than Vauthry."<br/><br/>The Exarch is far more expressive without his hood, Fray realizes; when the miqo'te lifts his head, ears laid back in distress, his eyes are wide with horror. Small wonder the man had clung to his shroud. "If you were reluctant before, I hardly think that <em>blackmailing</em> you would make you any more pliable to our cause. Please, do not fear such treachery. I offer you this instead as a gesture of trust: keep my secret untold from all others, and I shall hold my peace on yours." <br/><br/>With that, the man shakes his head, the tips of his long ears flicking in thought. The clarity is remarkable enough that Fray wishes he had lost patience and yanked the Exarch's hood off long ago, if only to shed at least one layer of pretense. "Whatever else has transpired, I know that you remain the Warrior of Light, and so my loyalty is to you -- even if I must begin anew to give you cause to place your faith in me. The Scions have spoken about their concerns for your well-being, but I suspect that it began long before Titania drew upon your strength." He looks up, tilting his head in a frank sympathy; his eyes soften in a gentleness that Fray <em>still</em> does not understand, holding neither resentment nor rancor at the deception. "You have been through much since you first slew Ifrit, haven't you, my friend."<br/><br/>The statement is unexpectedly permissive, not bothering to pose itself as a question. It slices the conversation away from its moorings and lifts it into a curious lightness, detached from the moment. Much like Y'shtola's acceptance, Fray realizes, it would give him the opportunity to speak about everything he and the Warrior had gone through. He could share the truth of those pains with another -- if he wished.<br/><br/>But -- for now, at least -- the danger has passed, and Fray merely shakes his head. "I do not think I am much of anyone's friend, these days," he admits. <br/><br/>"The world may always surprise you." Busying himself with checking both teacups, the Exarch pushes his own aside at last, as if he has come to a decision that no longer requires the hope of accidental intoxication. "Let us begin anew here then, as Crystal Exarch and Warrior of Darkness. I cannot say that I know all of what you have endured, in your struggles to protect Eorzea. But I can promise you that -- with all my being -- I hope to prevent you from having to sacrifice more. Indeed," he continues, and while his voice has resumed the pleasant metronome that Fray is familiar with, those red eyes are narrowed with barely-restrained dread, "should you no longer remember the sum of our history together, that may make certain... <em>decisions </em>even simpler."<br/><br/>It is a cheap placation -- and yet, Fray cannot argue against the need for practicalities. If the world risks being engulfed in an inferno, it will not matter if he and the Exarch are as dear as bedmates. "What is your plan, then? If you think to simply shuffle around the Light like a marked card in a sleeve, then I'll let Titania know to ignore everything you say until the next Flood comes to end it all."<br/><br/>"I will take it." As simply as if he were describing the handoff of a package of laundry, the Exarch shrugs. "I will take the Light upon myself and... find a means of using the Tower to help diffuse the corrupted aether directly into the rift. 'Twas built as a conduit for storing vast amounts of energy, drawn from the sun itself. As it has bonded itself to me over the years, so too have I become a part of its very core. That connection should allow it to draw the Light safely from my body without an intermediary, and channel it away from the First." <br/><br/>Lifting his crystal hand, the Exarch spreads his translucent fingers wide for emphasis. "However, the mechanisms that allowed the Tower to journey to this shard are already strained. Therefore, we must strike only at the last, after we have slain all the Wardens, lest any part of their aether be left behind. Urianger has been my ally in this course, and so we have both sought to ensure that the Light is as tightly concentrated as possible, so that we may act swiftly when the time comes. Yet... even with the Tower's capacity, the risks remain great. There is no doubt that the Scions would protest if they knew. But there are times we must accept that a narrow course is better than none at all -- and far better to place only one person in jeopardy than three, particularly if we should need your gifts if aught goes astray."<br/><br/>It is a neat enough explanation, laid out for the first time so directly. And it is with triumph that the Exarch concludes, looking up with a proud lift to his chin, as if Fray might somehow <em>approve</em> of such a scheme -- that, because Fray no longer swaggers about offering comforts and condolences to any passing stranger, he might somehow <em>miss </em>the very nature of what the man is suggesting. <br/><br/>"You <em>halfwit</em>." Fray does not wait to hear the man's shocked protest; he bullies on, even as the Exarch tries to open his mouth and sputter a further explanation. "If you are concerned that three Wardens' worth of Light might be too much for the Warrior of Darkness to bear, then how do you think someone without the blessing at <em>all </em>can handle five? <em>I</em> have held the Light all this while, Exarch," he continues, rising to his feet so that he can slam one hand upon the table, jabbing the finger of another angrily at the man. "I can assure you that you will never get as far as your first incantation before you vomit out your own stomach like a glass of spoiled milk!"<br/><br/>Tellingly, the Exarch does not deny the odds. Instead, he draws back visibly in his chair, biting his lip in an uncustomary display of sheepishness. <br/><br/>"I had hoped," he says awkwardly, "that your answer might have been... different."<br/><br/>"I lost my aether, not my <em>mind</em>," Fray retorts. Bereft of any patience left for tact, he looks up at the ceiling in a helpless plea for any god available; barring that, for Titania themself to descend and smack some sense into the conversation. "<em>Heroes!</em> All of you are so hellsbent on sacrificing yourselves for what you're convinced is the wellbeing of others. How heroic do you think you'll feel when <em>you </em>turn Warden, and usher in a second Flood? Either find a different method, or I'll leave Eulmore's Lightwarden <em>exactly</em> where it is for as long as it takes you to devise one."<br/><br/>Gathering himself gamely, the Exarch shakes his head hard enough to send the ornaments on his robe jangling. "We have <em>tried</em>." The serenity of his voice twists in a grimace. "After you overcame Eros successfully with your aether still canted towards an Astral influence, I began to wonder if we might take advantage of the change to nullify an Umbral force. But it is clear that we would need a far greater concentration to achieve this, particularly without destroying you. The Tower knows its way to the Thirteenth shard -- and yet, for that selfsame reason, I dare not open that door and invite the retaliation I know would come. Barring that, where else should we find another reserve safely? I would <em>not</em> have you infused with Darkness, only to watch you become a voidsent in the end."<br/><br/>All at once, Fray's breath stops in his chest. <br/><br/>"I can tell you where," he answers. "Emet-Selch."<br/><br/>There is a long pause in which the Exarch remains silent, blinking as he fits the new piece in place. "<em>Yes</em>," he exhales at last, crimson eyes lighting with excitement. "As an Ascian in thrall to Zodiark, he would certainly bear the greatest concentration of Darkness upon the First. But -- can you be so certain that the Lightwardens can be used safely in such a manner? Would it not destroy you first in the process?"<br/><br/>Fray does not bother with cheap assurances. He scoops up his greatsword from where it has been leaning docilely to the side all this while, and hefts it up in one long swing to lay it flat across the table. Its weight shakes the wood; the kettlespout hiccups a dribble of water. The intricate points of the weapon's crossguard spread out on either side of the blade, jabbing towards the Crystal Exarch like an elaborate dinner plate.<br/><br/>"Do you know what gives a dark knight the power to control their aether, Exarch?" Fray's fingers play along the metal, drumming rhythmically down the fuller. "Our strength comes from our passions, and our passions alone. Every time I face battle, I must channel my <em>emotions</em> to harness the magicks I need against my enemies. This will be no different." His hand flattens, smoothing down across the blade; a coil of violet energy rises along obediently in his wake, whispering of spite and pride. "Instead of an Edge of Shadow, I will use an Edge of Light. Five Lightwardens worth of it, their aether concentrated and purified into a blade stronger than any forgemaster has seen. I already know about channeling pain, Exarch. I do it every time I fight."<br/><br/>With that, Fray swings his sword up into his grip. The teacups clatter as the blade nudges them in passing, papers scattering in the sudden gust of air. Fray ignores them all, bracing the weapon against his shoulder as he jerks his chin imperiously. <br/><br/>"<em>There</em> is your solution, Exarch -- to both problems. Find a way to bait Emet-Selch, and I will bring the Light to him."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Eulmore is a madhouse, both within and without. Fray bats their attackers away like flies, hearing nagging reminders constantly from the Scions to not actually <em>kill </em>the fools who rush towards him -- and then dutifully climbs through the layers of the rotting city, hacking it open with the methodical nonchalance of someone entirely unsurprised by the consequences of Eulmore's decadence.<br/><br/>In retrospect, he should have known that the last Warden was Vauthry all along. His overwhelming dislike of Eulmore's ruler had blotted out everything else; even as Fray trudges up Mt. Gulg to exterminate the man, he cannot tell if he is doing it due to Vauthry's nature, or Vauthry's <em>other</em> nature.<br/><br/>Despite having only two Lightwardens within him, the toll is vast. His flesh is a living prison of hot iron laced around his soul, searing him no matter how lightly he touches his surroundings. There is no peace to be found, even in rest: with every breath, Fray burns with Light.<br/><br/>But he survives. Two is agony and three is worse, but Fray keeps his sanity in spite of the acid dissolving away his soul. The walls of his spirit shudder -- but do not fail. His skin does not crack open and bleed white ichor. He forces a grin that feels more like a snarl on his face as he lifts his greatsword, stomping down with one boot to splash through the puddle that Vauthry had left all across the golden floor of his throne room, and then devours the remainder of the third Warden's aether without hesitation.<br/><br/>Whereupon Emet-Selch -- at the end of his immortal patience with no sign of either Fray <em>or</em> Titania proving themselves willing to test their control over the Light beyond that -- promptly takes a hostage instead by snatching the Exarch away from Mt. Gulg itself. <br/><br/><em>Good riddance</em>, is Fray's first thought. If the Crystal Exarch is gone forever, then that is one less person in the world who knows the truth of Titania, and Fray has one fewer concern in his life. The Tower might be a problem to control without its master; the Crystarium surely will mourn. No matter. The Scions can find a way to deal with the Light on their own.<br/><br/>But on the heels of that conclusion comes another, far deadlier realization: that if the Exarch is somehow turned in his loyalties, or admits their plans under duress, then all their deceptions will be for naught. <br/><br/>Like it or not, Fray will have to rescue the idiot.<br/><br/>Disapproval of the Exarch keeps his mind off the true task at hand. Even an Oracle's power cannot cushion the damage eroding Fray's soul. Three Wardens worth of Light boil inside him, clawing at his aether and hollowing him out from within. Three is already far too much.<br/><br/>The price for entry to Emet-Selch's realm is that Fray himself comes bearing the power of all five.<br/><br/><em>I was already prepared for this</em>, he reminds himself grimly, as he explains the plan to Titania. The Scions -- still distraught from the Exarch's abduction and agreeing only, he suspects, because they don't know of any better options -- raggedly nod along when he appeals to them next. Emet-Selch's demands have ultimately changed nothing about their goals. Inviting the Light to be brought directly to the Ascian's sanctuary only makes their task simpler.<br/><br/>There is little else to do, save actually perform it. <br/><br/>As the Scions disperse for their last night of rest before the journey to Lakeland, where Bismarck lies waiting -- prompted by Titania, who had addressed their passage in advance -- Fray checks his armor, piece by piece. All the nicks have been repaired, the punctures and clawmarks smoothed out. Bundles of dried fruits and meats are wedged in his supply pack, offering fortitude for the road. He lays his sword upon the table and runs a finger fondly across the hilt, and then pushes it all aside.<br/><br/>Finally, Fray summons his courage and stands empty-handed in the middle of his quarters, preparing himself for the final matter he must attend to.<br/><br/>"Sigun Tyr," he whispers. It is a reversal of all the times that they had called for him, whispering and shouting <em>Fray </em>upon the wind, and he does not let himself think about how often he had refused to come. "Titania."<br/><br/>They are there before the sound of his voice finishes fading away in the corners of the room. <br/><br/>Standing at his height, their eyes are on his level, their feet upon the floor. The jewels of their necklace rest like golden tears against their skin. Emerald silk froths around their ankles, the trail of their gown seeming even longer when they are not in flight. With a slow stretch like a cat unfolding, the massive canopy of their wings spreads wide to its fullest display, glistening in the lights; the edge of one nearly overturns a chair. <br/><br/>Fray does not waste any attention on the furniture. He wets his lips, gathering all his thoughts together, only to have them scramble out like panicked mice. "We will go to the Tempest tomorrow and see what Emet-Selch has waiting for us. We will get as close as we dare before I ask for the Light from you, and then I will carry it all the way to the very center of his den." He longs to stop there; his voice is already trying to do it for him. "There might not be much time. I wanted to see you, before -- "<br/><br/><em>Before it's over</em>, he almost says, but doesn't. Looking at Titania like this already feels as if he's reached the end of every dream he has ever selfishly hoarded. If this is to be his final -- his <em>only</em> -- achievement, then Fray will die proud, knowing that he will have freed his Warrior in the end.<br/><br/>His Warrior of Light, now turned King. <br/><br/>"I love you," he says bleakly. The words are a harshness upon the air, lye scouring his throat and stinging his eyes, so that he squints against the pain of speaking them. He has been saying them for what feels like years. It has hurt every time. "I love you. Should Hydaelyn strip all Her blessing from me, and I am forced to go on with no protection save your name upon me -- I will do it. I only wanted to say... "<br/><br/>His voice dies again. It is a mockery that he must speak at <em>all</em> like this, when once, all Fray needed to do was to <em>feel</em> the emotions with all the passion he could muster. To present his anger and love and ferocity like gemstones on a pillow, offering them up to the Warrior to pick through at whim. Words are shallow. It is through the heart which Fray has always spoken best, and he has no means of making it work now.<br/><br/>Throughout his entire confession, Titania merely regards him steadily, their expression calm and thoughtful. When he finds he cannot continue, making only futile, formless exhalations every time he opens his mouth, they make a slight tilt of their head -- as if they have seen past every question of doubt, and discarded it all with the same unrelenting faith as when they had said, <em>we will be together or not at all</em>.<br/><br/>"There is no room for regrets among the fae folk," they answer. "There is only moment after moment to experience, beautiful and alive and whole."<br/><br/>Their shoes whisper across the ground. For him, they are willing to walk as a mortal does, step by step until they are standing directly before him. Their hands lift. Their fingers trace along his jaw as they lean forward, and then Titania is kissing him. <br/><br/>Their lips sting faintly where they touch him, as his own must do in turn: a lightning buzz that prickles his flesh, two portions of Light reacting to the other vessel's proximity. But Titania does not draw back, and Fray refuses to pull away, tilting his head to better meet them. Their mouth gently coaxes his open, and he wonders suddenly why he did not do this before, <em>only </em>this, forever for as long as he had the chance -- to touch his beloved once he finally had the hands to do it with, instead of the careful embraces and affections he had limited himself to, chastely placing his lips against their hands and brow. <br/><br/>He wonders, and he knows why within the same breath: he never wants to let go.<br/><br/>He feels their hands slip lower, palms sliding over the muscles of his stomach in wandering strokes through his shirt. He thinks nothing of it at first -- it was <em>their </em>flesh originally, after all, and he can hardly begrudge the prerogative of a former owner -- until he feels their fingers dip to the waistband of his pants, tugging on the lacings until they can slip inside. He breaks away from the kiss only so that he can make a sharp gasp of mixed lust and surprise; their fingers brush against his cock, palm wrapping firmly around him, and he is suddenly keenly aware of his arousal.<br/><br/>But their other hand is already pulling insistently at his shirt, and he obeys purely on instinct: two pairs of hands with the same unified intent driving them, Fray's will supporting Titania's desires, Titania's wishes wordlessly matching his. The night air runs cool against Fray's bare flesh as his clothes are tugged free. He forgets them even as they fall.<br/><br/>Velvet-rich silk slides like a pool of liquid moss as Titania's gown melts away, dropping to the floor in a shed chrysalis as they step effortlessly forward out of it. Their crown tumbles to the side, jewels flickering into a whisper of sparks. There is nothing between his skin and theirs now; it catches Fray's breath to see the perfection of their naked form, a mirror of his exactly save for the missing nicks and marks left behind from countless injuries over the years.<br/><br/>There are no scars on Titania's body; he has inherited them all.<br/><br/>With his clothing gone, Titania's hands run over him in long, lazy sweeps as they urge him backwards, and he moves obediently -- until the edge of the bed bumps into his legs and he tumbles down, their knee already on the mattress beside him. Their hair is spilling down, loose over their shoulder, and he clings artlessly to their arms as they bend over him, kissing every part of their body he can reach like a Sin Eater hoping to drink the aether off their skin. <br/><br/>When they straighten away from him suddenly, taking themselves out of easy reach, Fray makes a stifled grunt of protest -- but they are only moving further down his body, their mouth wandering over his chest, toying with his nipple with patient flicks of their tongue. Then lower. Their lips slide wetly around the head of Fray's cock, teasing and tasting him, and he makes a strangled groan, fisting his hands in the sheets as he tries not to allow his hips to buck.<br/><br/>They pause long enough to slide a hand up and over his, tangling their fingers together with his in a firm grip of reassurance.<br/><br/>Then they bend down again, and take the rest of him in.<br/><br/>He loses himself in the heat of it, clutching their hand like a man in the midst of drowning, hearing the faint, begging whimpers of his throat. He does not bother to stop his voice; there is no room between the two of them for such flimsy things as embarrassment. They have both seen it all in one another, every vulnerability and every pride, every form of nakedness imaginable. Fray willingly yields each gasp and cry he makes as an offering to Titania's ears, struggling not to overspill too quickly even as he feels himself trying to pull them closer, his heel against their leg, his hip against their arm. <br/><br/>Their fingers are slick with liquid. One is working its way inside him, steady and patient, knowing the pace he can withstand. He is helpless beneath the knowledge they have of his body, feeling them press their knuckles into him, forgetting everything save the sensation of their touch.<br/><br/>By the time he opens his mouth to beg for a second, they are already sliding it into him.<br/><br/>The pleasure of it crests before he can plead for them to slow down. Distantly, he can feel himself coming, shuddering with small, uncontrollable moans as he spills over onto his skin -- but Titania is still <em>inside</em> him, making slow, insistent thrusts that rub against his nerves. They stroke him relentlessly from within, drawing out the sensation of it into long waves that show no sign of stopping. Their fingers dip in and out of him in a rhythm that overrides every thought he can hold, drowning out even the Light itself, and he abandons his own senses to their control, blind with desire.<br/><br/>It is a moment that has no moorings in time, no definition save eternity. Another jolt rolls through him and he gives himself up to it, letting himself be touched for as long as Titania wishes, for however long they wish to indulge themself in him. The body is theirs to do with as they see fit -- <em>he</em> is theirs, as if Fray is a weapon which has just returned home from the war and needs tending, every ilm examined for bluntness or burr -- and he surrenders gladly to their care, begging with every part of the body they once shared for Titania to take him, to claim him, to make him theirs entirely once more.<br/><br/>Titania makes a warm hum of satisfaction against his skin. Fray feels his back arch in a spasm of fresh pleasure as they caress him again, teasing his nerves towards another crest. They move even deeper within him with one long, slow push, and he loses all words save for <em>please </em>and <em>more </em>and <em>I want</em> and <em>I love</em>, as monarch wings spread wide above him, filling the world with all the colors of his heart.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Amaurot changes everything and nothing. <br/><br/>The Light blisters Fray with each draught of air he inhales. Even at the bottom of the ocean, it feels as if he is standing in the middle of Amh Araeng at noon, breathing in sand that scours him from the inside until he can taste his own blood in the back of his throat. The transfer from Titania had been performed only at the very last moment that Fray had dared, on the outskirts of the city that Emet-Selch had raised at the bottom of the ocean -- and even then, he had needed Ryne present, brow furrowed in concentration as she used every skill Minfilia had taught her so far to keep the Light from simply splitting Fray open like a rotting fruit. <br/><br/>It is barely contained within him, despite the Oracle's protection. He does not have long.<br/><br/>But Amaurot seems to have no concept of the need to rush, even as its inhabitants discuss the rapidly impending destruction of their entire world. It is a city laced with sorrow -- but also a pure faith, as its people speak unquestioningly of their trust in each other to unify in search of a solution, that triumph will come because they will not give up hope, and that they will leave no one to face the void alone in fear.<br/><br/><em>Together.</em> It is what he hears here as well, from every mask and cowl. <em>We will survive because we will do so together. </em><br/><br/>Amaurot is a city with no locks on its doors and no knowledge of malice, and even as Fray walks its streets, he knows: if the same loss came to him, he would build an equal monument to his fallen and raze all the remaining shards for its fuel. He would crack open worlds, one by one, and harvest aether from the remains. No sacrifice is without justification in order to see Titania stir once more, reborn and whole.<br/><br/>Everyone else takes their time to investigate the city, prying into its secrets -- but Fray stops in place while he is exploring, and stares at the smooth road beneath his boots, sensing the faint skein of Emet-Selch's aether layered over everything. It is as if there is a very thin crust of ice that he is walking upon, formed by the frosting of pavement and plants and ghosts. Underneath, there is an abyss so deep that Fray, looking down, feels suddenly gripped with the pure, absolute conviction that he will fall forever if he tumbles into it.<br/><br/>Refusing to be intimidated so readily, he kneels in place and touches the stones with his gloved fingers, tracing over the delicately inscribed patterns and wondering at Emet-Selch's soul. <br/><br/>As he does, he realizes his mistake.<br/><br/>The city may be made of aether, but it is created by darkness. It is the culmination of despair and loneliness and yes, <em>love</em>, a kind so fierce that it knows no other way to live. Each conjured stone whispers of the madness that comes from losing one's people, and being forced to endure without them for thousands upon <em>thousands </em>of years, all spent chasing the slim hope that they might someday return. All of the torment Fray has weathered since leaving Titania behind is miniscule in comparison to this: <em>his</em> heart still lives and breathes, even at a distance. Emet-Selch's people are gone.<br/><br/>It is here, at last, that the first tendril of real terror worms its way into Fray's chest. Not for himself. Emet-Selch is what Fray would gladly become, if it came to it; Fray would throw himself headlong into any bargain and any slaughter, engineering the Calamities himself if need be. He would not allow himself the mercy of death either, for to do so would allow Titania to truly perish. <br/><br/>No. This fear has a different root, one that Fray cannot ignore. <br/><br/>Even with all of the Ascians' power, Amaurot still has never been restored. <br/><br/>This will be Fray's fate, if he fails in saving the First. <em>This</em> is the insanity waiting to trap him if he loses Titania, and dares to survive it. To spend the rest of eternity struggling against weak-hearted fools, only to find his best efforts coming to naught, and his beloved still dead.<br/><br/>A jagged bolt of sympathy rips through him, raking through his gut like a chirurgeon's overeager saw. Fray cannot hate Emet-Selch anymore -- or even pity the man. The Ascian may be considered a monster by the other races, but that monster is the same manner of beast as Fray: a thing swimming in an abyss of their own making, like an eyeless fish that drinks in pure hatred through its gills and grows glossier each time it feeds.<br/><br/>The only reason to pity someone grieving, Fray knows, is so you can feel smug about never suffering a loss bad enough to break you. <br/><br/>But he is a dark knight. He will choose the salvation of his heart over an entire world and its people, and he will never doubt the value of his cause.<br/><br/>Fray stands back up again and launches a brutal kick at the nearest corner of one of the ornamental railings, which does little other than scrape the stone. Instantly, he is surrounded by robed giants patting him on the head soothingly, gently asking if he'd like to <em>discuss his feelings</em>, and awkwardly trying to show him how to fix the architecture, to <em>heal</em> the landscape, and Fray buries his face in his hand as he tries not to think of Emet-Selch trying so hard to save his own fragile, precious loved ones.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Fortunately, the Ascian makes it easy to keep up the fight. Faced with conjuration after conjuration, Fray has no difficulty in countering with his own mockery and spite. He grasps his greatsword readily and lets the Light crackle underneath his skin, step by step until they cross through the last days of Amaurot itself, and Emet-Selch finally unfolds the full extent of all his grief and rage upon them.<br/><br/>Beneath their feet, the ruined histories of a star play out as the earth opens up in vast chasms, and the skies break apart to meet it. It is a chaos that might have daunted Fray once, before he found more important things to worry about. Every time he glances down towards the world spinning beneath their feet, he can see the cataclysm that had gripped the Ascian's world, far worse than anything the Source has ever experienced directly -- but he does not allow himself to mark it as anything save a glamour's trick. <br/><br/>It doesn't matter. Only one person does.<br/><br/>He's ready.<br/><br/>But the Light has had a luxury of time to burrow into him, and the delays in navigating through Amaurot's ghosts have weakened him beyond all safe measures. Five Lightwardens' worth of power has been jammed into his soul, where it has been free to gnaw at his aether, taking him apart despite even Minfilia's and Ryne's best efforts. <br/><br/>Before they have the chance to ready the white auracite, Emet-Selch is upon them. <br/><br/>Blades of aether explode down from the air, picking off the Scions one by one; each of them lashes out, and each of them is smashed to the ground. Fray can barely see them fall. His vision hazes between white and black mist, a pendulum swinging between two extremes of blindness -- and in the mixed sweat and blood trickling down his cheeks, he wonders, panicked, if his eyes are already beginning to melt.<br/><br/>Frantically, Fray paws his bangs out of his face. Dizziness worms in and out of his senses. Even without the white auracite at hand, he no longer has any plans of somehow gathering the Light and channeling it in a neat strike towards Emet-Selch. His fingers will not obey him enough to even lift his sword properly. Light sparks and cracks across his skin, slicing welts in the exposed flesh. There aren't enough openings left for him to take advantage of anymore; none of the Scions had managed to crack the Ascian's defenses, and if Fray cannot distract Emet-Selch in their stead, they may as well stay prone and bleeding on the ground.<br/><br/>It would be ironic, Fray thinks, for them to finally accept him as he is, only for him to be the one to falter at the end.<br/><br/>When he tries to take another step forward, he falls. <br/><br/>His knees strike the dirt first. He scrabbles for balance, catching himself only at the last moment with a hand against the ground. Poised at the far edge of the platform, Emet-Selch is weaving something hungry and vast; the cool whisper of Darkness blasts over Fray's face, and he turns automatically towards it in an instinctive craving for relief, pulling himself forward by leaning on his sword, levering himself up ilm by ilm until he can hobble upright.<br/><br/>He will not come back from this wounded, he realizes. He will not come back at all. The Light is killing him. It will not bother to turn Fray into a Warden first. It will claw its own way free from the ashes of his body, and seize the nearest Scion it can find as its new host, and then they will have to seek out Titania after all. <br/><br/>All Fray can do -- if he's lucky -- is to try and stagger directly into the Ascian's grasp, and then allow the Light to break free and consume them both.<br/><br/>It is a plan that takes no finesse. Only willpower -- but that is a fuel which Fray has never lacked. <br/><br/>His breath rasps in his lungs. One by one, he reaches for each emotion he can find within him, not ashamed by either nobility or ugliness. Everything he has ever felt is merely a different form of power. Bitterness. Loathing. Impatience. Contempt. Devotion. <br/><br/>Love.<br/><br/>As his body sways precariously on his feet, Fray reaches the bottom of his soul, down to where he had pushed the feelings that he had withheld from Titania, lest he worry them. There is no purpose in restraint anymore; he does not need to put on a brave face for his deathbed. There is no one here he needs to fool. <br/><br/>The abyss cannot hear him. He does not need to hold back.<br/><br/>His soul lays in tatters, a threadworn banner that only rips further with each passing second. The Light is a numbing cage around him; he refuses to heed it. In outright defiance of the emptiness that the abyss has become, Fray gathers every scrap of emotion he can find and lets it howl in the nothingness, dragging out every pain, every loneliness, every <em>agony</em> that he has experienced since leaving Titania, every misery and fear. Anguish blossoms throughout his body in firebursts brighter than the sun, and Fray admits to that too, no longer having to conceal it, attempting to put on a brave face and praying to die in silence. That pain feeds him -- he will <em>make </em>it feed him, distilling each torment into pure willpower, so that even if he is left with nothing save an eternal, yearning scream, it will not be dimmed in strength. <br/><br/>It is a love song that feels that much sweeter for the fact that it will be his last. The Light is filling every crevice of his soul. He defies it anyway; his soul is burning away into a maelstrom of love and despair and horror, transforming into a mindless banshee of desire, and <em>it</em> will be the sword he clings to when nothing else is left.<br/><br/>It is delusional of him to pretend that he can reach Titania's spirit any longer. It is equally delusional to believe they can find him back. <br/><br/>But death is the right excuse for both of these things. In these few remaining moments left to him as he surrenders to its pain, Fray lets himself imagine that he can feel their heart pouring over him as well: slow at first, and then as an inexorable tide that crashes through him, brimming with warmth. He can almost imagine their presence beside him, wrapped like the softest furs around his body. Their voice might call his name over and over, echoing as it had once before over snowfields and hillsides. Their eyes would be crinkled with affection, their hair mussed with sleep. Even in the blurring of his vision, Fray can still picture them clearly. As the Warrior -- as the King. It does not matter what their form is. He will recognize them anywhere. <br/><br/>Another yalm forward, and Fray is still too far away from Emet-Selch. The distance stretches even further than the path from the First to the Source. His skin feels as if it has completely burned away; there is an inferno at his back. Worry and courage and affection are all singing in his mind. His knee slides out from beneath him, and this time, he cannot catch himself; his face strikes the ground, the slap of pain like a distant surprise. A fresh shout of terror pierces through his thoughts. <em>It</em> sounds like Titania as well. <br/><br/>It <em>all </em>sounds like Titania.<br/><br/>As he struggles to lift his head again, Fray catches sight of the power congealing in the air behind him, and finally realizes why he can sense the Faerie King so clearly.<br/><br/>In the space between Fray and the void, rainbows vivisect the night sky. The air is distorting, etched with a spiderweb pattern of stained glass which slowly grows in fractional spirals before the panes collapse and unfold once more. The kaleidoscope warps; colors condense down into vivid golds and oranges, until they become a spread of massive wings which splay across the stars above.<br/><br/>Somehow, Titania had <em>heard </em>his voice. <br/><br/>And now, they are ripping the world apart to get to him.<br/><br/>Suspicion leaps in Fray's thoughts only a moment before Titania's confirmation rings through his soul. Even though he had not voiced their name, they had sensed his agony -- his agony, along with everything <em>else </em>he had shouted into the abyss, alerting them to the truth he had managed to hide. Fray can no longer lie to them about his health, or his happiness. They know it all, can sense his soul as clearly as their own, and have decided to force their way through past all of Emet-Selch's boundaries and summon <em>themselves </em>to his aid. <br/><br/>Like a river unbound, their heart pours into his, flooding him with their determination. All of their thoughts race with quicksilver speed into Fray's soul. Their sorrow and shame mix with his own longing, heavy with regret. And in the center of it all, a brilliant ferocity shines, focused on not allowing Fray to sacrifice himself -- so brilliant that Fray nearly misses the rest of their intentions, overwhelmed by the sheer rush of it all.<br/><br/>Titania will not leave him to do this alone. They will take back the mantle of the Warrior of Light, and assume the duty as their own.<br/><br/>Fray shudders all over, a full-body spasm of both longing and refusal. His hands are trembling. His glove scrabbles and slides over the dirt, struggling to pull him forward; with an excruciating effort, he manages to crawl forward another step towards the far edge of the platform, away from the maelstrom behind him. There's no reason he should resist. He cannot stop Titania, even if he <em>tried</em>; the borders between their minds are gone now, and soon the aether of their forms will follow. All he has to do is relax and welcome it. Never again will Fray be cursed to walk the wilderness in solitude; he will heed no errands save those he deigns to pay attention to, always embraced within the shelter of another's protection. Never again will he be alone.<br/><br/>The soul of the one he loves most is waiting for him. In only a few moments, they will manifest enough to wrap their arms around him, and then Fray will finally have what he has longed so desperately for: he will be <em>with</em> them, and not even the Ascians will separate them a second time. <br/><br/>Rainbows shriek, twisting into a distorted tempest that opens a portal directly through the abyss, connecting Il Mheg to Amaurot through Fray himself. The stars above Amaurot streak down in comet tears. Titania is nearly through. Even as their presence begins to manifest, the leaves of their gown are already withering away, crumpling into shreds like grass dying beneath the touch of winter. The luxurious jewels of their wings have bleached into pale mockeries of themselves; ivy crisps away from their hair, which loosens into a fireplume that flares from their body, rippling in the wind even as the gold of its strands decays. <br/><br/>Through sorrow, through grief, through acceptance of the duty that they pull back like armor upon their skin, Titania comes for him -- and Fray can see the pathetic lump he makes upon the ground so clearly because he can see himself through <em>Titania's </em>eyes now, the final boundaries between their souls crumbling away at last. <br/><br/>All he can do is watch as they reject the blessings of kinghood and return to mortality, destroying their own happiness so that someone else can have it instead. <br/><br/>Beyond them both, Emet-Selch spreads his arms. Emet-Selch, whose grief is no less all-consuming. Who is Fray's future incarnate.<br/><br/>But the darkness is Fray's strength as well. Anger is the meat he sups on; hatred is his drink. Titania's soul does not lack for its own injustices, and as the lines between their spirits melt away, <em>their</em> portion of grief pours into him now: a vast reservoir of history that overflows its borders and batters Fray like a twig in a storm-swollen river. He lets it wash over him without resistance, breathing in every atrocity the Warrior had born witness to, still stored within Titania's recollections. Memories of the Warrior scrubbing laundry in streams with hands that bled from fighting beasts on the road, of being staked out on a ship for some Primal sea snake to eat, of slogging through blizzards after being sold to Syndicate treachery. The smirking face of Archbishop Thordan, an Ishgardian priest throwing a child off the Vault. Of walking through endless rows of bodies, disposed of like spare cornhusks after their souls had been harvested by Garlean engineers. <br/><br/>Ysayle, dying like a comet in the air above Azys Lla. The memory of dragon's blood spilled across the stones of Falcon's Nest, of bodies strewn around Rhalgr's Reach while a smirking, spoiled Garlean prince tossed the Warrior aside in pursuit of more. Papalymo, funneling his life away into pure aether, all to ultimately buy only a miniscule amount of time in the end. <br/><br/>Every weakling who thought to justify their selfishness, rather than trying to fix their own mess. Every time mercy had been exploited, every sacrifice made for the profit of others. Every hero unfortunate enough to slowly lose all cause to smile -- it all leads back to here, <em>now</em>, when the darkness has a voice and a will, and it is not simply Emet-Selch who has known outrage, it is Fray.<br/><br/><em>I should have known</em>, he hears at the bottom of it all, a familiar whisper of despair that traces along the back of his spine, already resigned to its fate. <em>I should have known that I could never be allowed to rest</em>.<br/><br/>Fray stands up.<br/><br/>He manages only by throwing his weight in a lurch forward; if not for his greatsword, he would have flung himself directly onto his face. Every single one of his limbs refuses to work properly. His glove shreds as he grips the blade and yanks himself the rest of the way up, stumbling forward and going down to one knee again instantly. His sword rasps across the ground like an iron paddle as he shoves it before him, demanding that his hips work properly, his arms obey his demands -- and, with another stumble, Fray finally manages to keep his feet, swaying upright only because he allows himself no other option but to <em>walk</em>.<br/><br/>But he's already lost too much ground. The molten Light inside him has chewed away all sense of direction; all he can sense around him are vague shapes of aether, given details only through virtue of Titania's eyes being there to see it. Their presence is so close behind him. Their aether twines through his own. He won't make it to Emet-Selch in time.<br/><br/>Titania's fingers brush against his neck.<br/><br/>Then the rush of an axe is suddenly there, sweeping down with an executioner's force as Titania yanks their hand instinctively away, blocked by the thick wall of metal thrust between them both -- and Ardbert steps forward, looking directly at Fray with a wry nod. <br/><br/>"Seems like one blessing of Light spread across two people might not be enough after all," he announces. Light spatters off the edge of the axe; his grin is bright and wicked, all ennui shaken away at last, ready for battle once more. "Let's even the odds with <em>mine</em>."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>With the Light gone, the night feels gentler than Fray has ever remembered it before.<br/><br/>All of Norvrandt is embraced now by the cycle of sun and stars, covered by a sky that has no glossy doom to warn of death still waiting. Amh Araeng stirs as its miners dream of renewed prosperity and clacking  rails, carts heavy with ore; Kholusia sees Eulmore's gates open wide, with the Ladder once more groaning into regular service as it unites both halves of the land. In the Rak'tika Greatwood, the Night's Blessed lift their arms to greet each new dusk that descends to meet them, and offer their prayers without fear. <br/><br/>Underneath the ocean, Amaurot slowly decays. Its ghosts are freed to fade into the aether, ignorant of their true fate as Hades's magicks slip away without their master to renew them.<br/><br/>But despite all the wonders unfolding in the First, there is only one place that the Warrior of Darkness goes to. There is only one place he wishes to see.<br/><br/>Lyhe Ghiah is bedecked with garlands stretching from its highest spire to lowest pathstone, clad in chains of flowers which shed petals with each stray breeze. Pixies buzz back and forth like giggling bees as they tug on each braid, quarreling over which placement might look best. Rainbow aether gently pours in a glittering tide from the wings adorning the castle, proof to all of the King's continued reign.<br/><br/>Inside, Titania drifts lazily over the ballroom floor, which has been strewn with enough flowers that it appears to have been transformed entirely into a meadow field. The edge of their gown leaves its own path trailing behind them, coating the blossoms in dew.<br/><br/>"You are leaving now," they say when they see him, simply and without disdain.<br/><br/>Fray grunts as he picks his way towards Titania, trying not to trample on too many of the blooms; with his luck, the pixies would force him to gather more to replace the squashed ones. The weight of his armor is already crushing dozens in his wake. "The Warrior of Light would fall even further under suspicion if he did not scamper back home like a faithful dog, ready and willing to fight whatever new beast the city-states would bid him slaughter next. But there are other Ascians left to destroy, and I intend to find them. Immortal you may be, but if this shard goes, you will go with it." He scrubs a hand against the back of his neck, aware of how shabby he looks, coming directly from the Crystarium. It is his turn now to appear disheveled, his bangs skewed and in need of a perpetual trim. "The good news is that we've seen how easily Warriors of Light can be created -- there's no shortage of them here now, thanks to Elidibus's interference. So I'll toddle back to the Source and let the legends of your deeds live on properly there until another replacement stands up, and then disappear before they can think to catch me."<br/><br/>Titania glances up at him from untangling a clump of violets. Their smile sits easily on their face now, broad with merriment. "At least you'll have Ardbert for company in the meantime. He'll have to take care of you, the same way you always watched over me."<br/><br/>"While you'll have that brat Myste. And a kingdom, I <em>suppose</em>," he adds grudgingly, because he likely shouldn't overlook an entire country, even if they don't quite measure up. "But your friends will likely get themselves into immediate trouble, knowing them. Until they learn some common sense, it seems that I'll have to tag along with the fools."<br/><br/>"And <em>I</em> will have to visit you only in dreams and through small items stolen and fetched across the shards, mischief in your saddlebags and storehouses." Arching an eyebrow, Titania straightens up. Petals shed from their sleeves. "But there is one matter which will not change, I suppose."<br/><br/>Distracted by the tumbling of a flower close to his boot, Fray does not immediately catch the sobering of Titania's voice. "Mm?"<br/><br/>"Fray." Their tone is firm enough that he looks over to them instantly, expecting some form of Sin Eater breaking through the floor, or other outrageous threat. "You are my darkness. You give me strength, even when we are apart. And if I am not disposable, then remember that <em>you</em> are not either."<br/><br/>It is confession and possession both, a whisper that reaches back between them as far as those first days in Ishgard; Fray feels his soul ache simply to hear it. He wraps the memory deep within him, but its warmth has already reached his face, and he can feel the corner of his mouth soften with affection.<br/><br/>"I make no promises," he says aloud wryly, and when Titania narrows their eyes, he backsteps out of reach before they can strike him. "Tell the boy he'd better behave. And if he <em>does</em> learn how to stalk people's dreams, to stay out of mine."<br/><br/>"Tell Ardbert he should avoid scowling so much. Between the two of you, I fear for Eorzea's good humors." Titania lifts a fist pointedly at him, but then abandons the threat. "But you should not stay here with me for too long. Mortals care a great deal about time, if I recall."<br/><br/>With that, they reach over to slide a dandelion into the crease of one of his pauldrons, even though it droops immediately and threatens to fall out. Undeterred, they add another, and then another, until -- chuckling -- Fray reaches out to bat their hands away, and earns himself a flap of a wing in his face. <br/><br/>Turning against it, Fray squints against the blur of orange and gold -- and, as he does, a sudden flash of memory trickles back. There had been a fragment of conversation with a Wood Wailer, long ago in Gridania, when the Warrior had spotted a stray monarch flitting by. <em>Traveling butterflies</em>, the Wailer had called them, migrating across malms each year. Their lifespans were too short to make the full trip themselves, but the instinct remained, guiding each new generation home no matter how long it took.<br/><br/>That will be him now, Fray thinks. Him and Titania both: two monarch butterflies in flight across the stars, finding their way back together in the end.<br/><br/>He lowers his head in a reluctant nod, already stacking up the odds in order to better conquer them. "No rift will separate us forever," he promises. "I will go to the Source and be the Warrior in your stead -- and then, once I am no longer needed, I will return. If our body is slain, I will simply make the journey without it. If the gateway closes, I will learn the tricks of the Oracles and be reborn again and again, for as long as it takes to wrench it open once more. If Minfilia could do it, then I will find a way as well. I <em>swear</em> it."<br/><br/>Every window of the ballroom is radiant with the setting sun. Light pours in verdant streams around them. Graced by the radiance, Titania drifts like a jewel above the ballroom garden -- no, like a blossom themselves, Fray thinks. Something <em>alive</em>, continuing the process of unfurling its petals and setting down its roots, growing higher and higher towards the sky. Finding its way, even as Fray himself still is, but no less treasured by their people for it.<br/><br/>"This is your story now, Warrior of Darkness," they declare softly. They cradle his hands with their own, twin mirrors which have slowly started to diverge: their skin unmarred, his dirtied by the fight. "But after that story ends, we will write a new one together, where no one remembers who we once were, save ourselves."<br/><br/>The mossy silk of their gown slips across Fray's fingers as they release him. It is far past time for his farewells -- but he cannot go. There is one more matter left, and it is more important than any Ascian he has faced, or any Lightwarden slain. He attempted it once before. He will not let himself fail a second time.<br/><br/>"I miss you," he says carefully. "I love you. Even if I am never allowed to feel your soul again, as we once were. Even if, forever -- "<br/><br/>But Titania stops him, unexpectedly, with two fingers pressed hard against his lips. As he blinks at them, wondering if the message is one of rejection, they take his unresisting hand and hold it against their chest -- before performing the same gesture in turn, their palm across him in silent authority. He can feel the heat of their skin through their gown, the slow rhythm of their lungs guiding his hand in a steady rise and fall. <br/><br/>"Fray," they murmur. Their fingers fan wide over his armor. "Listen to my voice. Listen to our heartbeat. Do you hear it?"<br/><br/>His first impulse is to resist. He had not tried to look into the abyss after the confrontation with Hades -- unwilling to be reminded that the brief union they had shared could only have been temporary. But he cannot resist Titania's command either, no more than a tree can fight against the need to stretch towards the sun, and his thoughts are already turning towards the darkness within before he can decide otherwise.<br/><br/>Even though he knows the effort is futile, Fray closes his eyes.<br/><br/>The abyss is just as quiet as before. His senses remain numb from the Lightwardens' aether, brutally scoured from their assault upon his life. Even with his own emotions present, there is only a stillness that holds its breath in waiting: a cavern whose echoes contain Fray's heart, and nothing more.<br/><br/>There is only stillness -- and a flame.<br/><br/>It takes its shape gradually from the mist itself, dancing in a faint flicker that is barely an ember strong. The sensation is distant, blurry, like hearing laughter from behind a heavy curtain. But as Fray reaches towards it, the illumination kindles brighter and brighter, drawing him in -- and slowly, surely, a familiar warmth pours over his mind, seeping into every part of him still wounded and easing away the ache. It is clearer than he expects, as rich and undiluted as honey straight from the comb, and all the better without any form of pain to obscure it this time.<br/><br/><em>Without</em>, he realizes suddenly, the <em>Light</em>. <br/><br/>Titania had held the Lightwardens' aether for nearly the entire time of their separation, ever since Il Mheg: a force of stagnation and stasis, anathema to Fray's own sensitized form. Fray, in turn, had taken on even more. And as he had, the silence of their connection had only deepened between them, muting both their voices as surely as the Empty had been smothered of life.<br/><br/>It is gone now, all of that corruption and stifling acidity, and the freedom feels as vivid as the first night sky he had seen on the First. There is a brilliance coming back to him that he thought forever gone, murmuring louder and louder into his soul. As Fray's senses reach towards it, eagerly calling out to be heard, he feels Titania's heart answering back in perfect clarity -- surrounding him in joy, unburied and alive, and part of him forever. <br/><br/>"I do," he whispers. "I hear us."<br/><br/>He turns his face towards Titania as they are already bending towards him, knowing their actions effortlessly in advance as their intentions echo his own. Their desires are one and the same. The Light offers no barrier between them anymore; there is nothing to keep the edges of their spirits from mingling in an intimacy beyond that of any flesh, and when he hears Titania's soft, eager sigh reaching directly into his mind, Fray responds with every onze of emotion within him. They open their mouth to him. He lets himself taste the nectar on their tongue with a slow, languorous hunger -- even as his soul unfolds beneath their caress, drinking in the glory of their thoughts as they possess him.<br/><br/>Then the doors burst open at last as pixies tumble in from outside, laughing merrymakers too impatient to wait any longer. The flock startles him and Titania apart, shrieking gleefully as they swoop down and gather up armfuls of fresh flowers, quarreling over the brightest blooms. Titania turns to watch the chaos, their expression radiant with exhilaration and life. <br/><br/>One last touch of their hand to his face, and then Titania is gone, drawn away to dance in the moment and all its brief delights. On a gust of wind, the pixies rush out of the castle, as quickly as they had invaded -- leaving Fray alone, but with a sweetness lingering in his mind. He can feel the whisper of their bond already beginning to ease now that he is not actively seeking it out, ebbing away into a formless ripple of reassurance in the darkness. <br/><br/>But it is no longer lost. Not now. Not ever again.<br/><br/>Fray touches his chest, feeling the abyss still humming strong between them, and smiles.<br/><br/>He leaves the castle slowly, not bothering to swing the massive doors shut behind him, and lets the evening air blow freely into its halls.<br/><br/>Outside, an amaro and its rider are waiting nervously near where Fray left his own steed: a scout wearing black and red colors, who is busy losing a baleful staredown with a Fuath perched on a nearby rock. With a start, Fray realizes he recognizes the guardsman; the scar on the man's left cheek is distinctive, healing clean now in a pink welt across his skin, a few patches of stubble attempting to grow in around it.<br/><br/>"Hey! You there -- sorry, my lord, sorry. My apologies," the scout corrects as he spots Fray, clearing his throat and shuffling from foot to foot. "I've come with a message from the Crystarium, very important. You're the Warrior of Darkness, right? You're him?"<br/><br/>With an insistent flick of his hand, Fray waves the Fuath away, who sulks resentfully back to the lake. Aether spreads in a glittering cloud above them, mixing with the setting sun to paint the world in warmth. Pixies giggle as they tumble across the breeze, planning out their nightly mischief as they weave flower nets into new dreams.  <br/><br/>In the sky, his heart is flying, forever free beyond any mortal hands to tie it down again. <br/><br/>"Yes," Fray says. "I am."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
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    <em>"Now comes your part,<br/>To cloak yourself in the fiction,<br/>To breathe life into the dead,<br/>To give a voice to the voiceless."<br/><br/>- Fray, 'Our Closure'</em>
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